Reckonings
by HRFan
Summary: Set immediately after the end of series 8. Focused on HR. RATED K throughout except for ch. 19, which should be read as M.
1. Chapter 1

5

**Reckoning Ch 1**

**The characters (well, almost all of them!) are owned by BBC and Kudos.**

**Your comments ****on **_**Returns**_** were so helpful, and I enjoyed writing that story so much, that I decided to write another one…not sure where this going. We'll see. It is set immediately after the end of series 8. What prompted it is that although many of us see harry as a bit of a softy, I actually thing that he is quite hard, quite ruthless at times (remember the episode where he kills some assassin who was following him, by using his tie, in a subway public toilet? Or something like that…) Also, in series 8, Ruth has changed too. She stands up to Harry, she is no longer gauche and awkard, she has gained in confidence and experience. In this fic I will try to explore those features of their character, and how they affect their relationships. At the same time, I want them to remain in character broadly speaking, so tell me if I go off track (some of my plans for future chapters really might not work at all…)**

**OK, enough of this, and on to the story. **

**1. **

He phones her on a regular basis, from the hospital, to give her updates on Lucas (both legs broken, fractured ribs and a concussion), Ros (in coma), and Andrew Lawrence (crushed pelvis, critical condition.) He hasn't come back to the Grid, or gone home, since the explosion two days before. Nor has she. She is itching to go to the hospital, not least to be with him, but he has made it very clear that she is to stay where she is – processing, analysing information on Nightingale as some of the conspirators throughout the world are being rounded up and interrogated.

In the spare moments she has, in between emails and phone calls, she casts her mind back to the few moments she and Harry shared as the plot unfolded – when he took her to the intelligence briefing, when she challenged him – rightly, it seemed – on his prejudices against the home secretary, that moment on the roof, when he brushed off her attempt at comforting him, his direct, quite hard stare when she tried to convince him not to go to the hotel…he is blowing hot and cold on her, and she no longer knows where she stands with him. What she does know is that once the adrenaline generated by those hectic few days levels off, she will be left with the same answered questions as before….how long, she thinks bleakly, how long before we can finally talk, and find a way to each other…

She sighs.

'Ruth?'

She looks up: Tariq, who really got his baptism of fire today, and came through superbly, is calling out to her, looking rather worried.

'Yes?'

'There's something odd. About Nicholas Stone.'

'The former Home Secretary? What's that?'

'He's disappeared.'

'What do you mean, disappeared?'

'Well, Harry had asked me to put a trace on him. It's gone.'

'Have you…?'

'Yes. He's not answering his phone and his email account has been deactivated.'

She thinks for a few seconds, then picks up the phone and orders a car. 'I'm going to go to his house now. If Harry rings here put him through to my mobile.'

At Stone's house, no answer. The blinds are shut. There's no sign of anyone there. She pulls out her mental file on Stone: a widower, no known lover, no children….on the way back to the Grid, she places a few queries with the police and local hospitals. No one has filed a mssing person report, no one has seen him. He's properly and truly gone, she frowns as she makes her way to her workstation.

'Tariq told me. So?' Harry intercepts her, impatient, urgent, fatigued etched on his face.

'Nothing, Harry. No one has any idea where he is. How are….??'

'Still stable, both of them', he cuts in.

'And Lawrence?'

'Still critical. You were right about him, Ruth.'

'Mmm…which leaves us with his predecessor.'

Harry rubs his face, tiredly. 'I don't know what to think anymore. I was so convinced he was one of the good guys.'

'He might still be. We need more information, Harry.'

'The voice of reason', he says…'As usual.' He means it well, but she does not take it that's how he sees me, she thinks. Good old dependable reliable Ruth…she grits her teeth. Come on, get a grip, she tells herself, you're exhausted, so he is……

So she smiles, a thin, tight smile, and takes her place at her desk station, the blue light of her screens tracing abstract figures on her face, oblivious to Harry;'s intense, concerned and at once hungry gaze on her.

**2. **

Four weeks after the explosion, Lucas is out of the hospital but stuck in a wheelchair; Lawrence is recuperating in a high dependency unit – he is still the Home Secretary though, in a symbolic gesture of the PM, determined that 'terrorists will not endanger the functioning of democratic institutions'. 'He's got no else to replace him with' – was Harry's hard, cynical gloss to Ruth.

Then again, Harry has become hard and cynical. Or perhaps he always was, and she had managed to overlook his inherent toughness? She tries to tell herself that he is desperately worried about Ros, who is only slowly emerging from her coma; she reasons that he is operating under enormous, crushing pressure – with Lucas and Ros out of commission for now, they are severely under strength. He has asked MI6 for field agents, but the process of vetting, and trying them out, is frustratingly slow. So far, MI 6 have only managed to release one – John Derby, in his late thirties though already veteran of Middle Eas field work, with unparalleled knowledge of the region's many dialects and politics. He is with them only part time, for a short spell, and she can tell, already, that Harry doesn't take too him. Still, she wishes he were less abrupt with Derby, less impatient generally with all of them, especially Tariq, the youngest of all, who is trying as best as he can to be as good as Malcolm was with only a fraction of the older man's experience, but who falls short somewhat – and how else could it be, when they have no time to process the avalance of information they are getting, when more still is coming, and when his many requests for more sophisticated equipment go unanswered by the high tech department?

She wishes that she could get through to Harry. But gone are the private moments of shared understanding which made her days at the Grid bearable. Gone are the briefed, snatched conversations on the roof, which made her feel that they were, slowly but steadily, groping their way to – to what, exactly, she asks herself in her bleakest moments? To a blurry friendship? A platonic never-going-anywhere romantic attachment? She casts her mind back to that time, on the roof, when he _was _crying over the fate of thousands of strangers who might die because of Nightingale; she remembers the feel of his arm under her fingers, as she tried to comfort him – and the way he pulled away, quickly, closing down on her, unwilling to acknowledge both his feelings and her touch….

He never used to smile much, at work. In the last few weeks, she has not seen him smile, let alone laugh, once. At first, she could understand his tension. Now, she is beginning to feel angry. Rather furiously angry, in fact.

**3. **

He doesn't remember feeling as powerless as he is now. His best field agents unavailable, the democratic credential of the wounded but stil very much present Home Secretary still in doubt, the complete lack of information about Nicholas Stone's whereabouts…and this new man, John Derby, on loan from Six as a huge favour whose smoothness and obvious rapport with Ruth irk him…He is floundering. He has a deep, unshakeable hunch, that Nightingale is not dead, and that all they got was a reprieve. Pakistan and India pulled away from the brink this time. Officially the CIA director was not part of it; nor the US president. He can just about believe that. What he cannot believe is that an operation as sophisticated, and as financially well endowed as Nightingale, was a one-shot so the question is where the next shot will be coming from, who will fire it, and when, and they don't have a clue.

Nothing Tariq manages to pull out from his twice daily trawl through relevant mobile, email and internet traffic yields anything much – however creatively Ruth manages to analyse the snippets they get.

Ruth…he so much wish he could get closer to her. A few weeks ago, it felt as if she would welcome that. Her fingers on his, when he took the difficult decision to keep a young teenager in the field as an informat…her hand stroking his arm, the day of the explosion…her offer they go for a drink, which he accepted but never took up….She's taken all the steps since their bench conversation after Jo's death, and he hasn't felt able to even meet her half way.

When he can, when he is not rushing between meetings and sitting at hair-raising briefings, he tries to understand himself. _It's not that I don't want her_, he tells himself. _God knows…it's because I simply can't give her what she had in Cyprus. I can't give her a simple and elegant life. As for companionship…how could I, when I have to work 18 hours a day…_

Deep down, he knows that these are flimsy rationalisations. That the reason why he is stuck is because he is terrified of losing her again, of having to watch her leave with someone else or die. The fear is hard enough in their state of non-relationship; if they were with her, properly together, as he is not even sure these days she wants to be, the fear would be terror, unmanageable, paralysing.

So he clams up, erects barriers around himself and keeps her at arms length – even more so these days as he really barely has the time to eat or sleep. He knows that he is not leading his skeleton-staff as effiicently as he could. He knows that he is too demanding, not genial enough, too sparse with praise. He can tell, too, that Ruth is becoming more and more distant with him. But he does not know how else to be.


	2. Chapter 2

7

**Reckoning ch 2**

**1. **

'Come on, penny for them?'

'What?'

'Penny for your thoughts', John says to Ruth teasingly. She is finding it hard to resist his smile, and his charm. His light-heartedness is a welcome relief from Harry's sombre mood. She smiles back. 'Well, I was thinking that in three days from now, I will be standing with my choir in St Paul's Cathedral, to sing Beethoven's 9th symphony.'

'Well, well, well…you're a dark horse, Ms Evershed. I didn't have you down as a singer.'

'Oh. And…you had me as what, exactly?' _I am flirting with him…_she is astonishing herself, but she feels freeer, looser, when he is around. For all that he knows about the middle east, in other ways he is rather superficial, and light, but God it is lovely not to have to ponder and reflect on everything she is planning to say before actually saying it…

'Oh, as mostly a reader…', he says somewhat inanely. 'And…is it possible to come to this concert?' he asks charmingly.

She stares at him. 'Are you actually interested in Beethoven's music?', she asks dubiously.

'Not really, I'm more of a Stones kind of guy', he replies disarmingly, 'but if it means getting you out of this place and into a pub for a drink, I'll sit through anything.'

She can't help laughing. He manages to be flirtatious without being smarmy, so utterly at ease and confident in his own skin, so open too, that she can read him like a book. She doesn't kid herself for a second that he really wants her. He has a bit of a reputation as a ladies' man (she's read his file, obviously), as someone who can't help try it on with female co-workers, without ever crossing the line into harassment. If Ros were here, he would try it with her, but she isn't, Ruth is the only woman on the grid, so he tries it on with her. And he does it so charmingly, so affectionately almost, that she cannot feel offended at all. He is, in fact, James Bond incarnate, she reflects, open to all and to no one, and therefore utterly unattractive to her. Whereas Harry, of course, is open to no one at all, which is why she still hankers for him. And which is why too she would love for him to come to her concert. Not that he has shown any sign of remembering.

She smiles at John brightly. 'You're on. I'll give you my spare ticket tomorrow.'

'John? Ruth?'

Derby turns round. Harry is standing three feet away from Ruth' desk, face unscrutable, eyes cold.

'In my office please? Something has come up.'

John saunters over to Harry's office, with a wink at Ruth who is following them, fully aware of Harry's coldness, not giving a damn.

**2. **

'So, in a nutshell, we think that an as-yet unknown group of Muslim fundamentalists are training in Egypt with the full knowledge of the CIA; in fact, that some elements within the CIA are funding them, with the complicity and agreement of some elements within our _own_ secret services…

'With a view to launch multi-pronged and simultaneous attacks on several European capitals. The ultimate goal being to seal a Western, Christian coalition of the willing, with the US and the UK at the core but this time…'

'This time with all the others on board, especially Paris and Berlin…'

'That's right. Probable targets: Eiffel Tower, Reichstag, the King's residence in Spain, St Peter's basilica in Rome…'

'And in London?'

'That we don't know.'

The enormity of what they are actually saying silences Ruth and John. Harry, so far, has said very little, beyond the snippets of information Tariq has at last pulled out from various sources. He has not needed to say very much: Ruth and John think so much alike, feed off each other's mind so well that watching them interact would be a joy – if it were not Ruth with whom the younger man is flirting, sparring, conversing…

He was watching them earlier, laughing, smiling. He heard John ask Ruth about her concert…_he _should have been the one to ask, he should be going to it. He wanted to, in fact, but the pressures of work, his inability to let go of his inhibitions, once again, got in the way…

With an effort he drags himself back to their meeting. It's a breakthrough, at last. Of a kind. They know the contours of Nightingale's new move. They know some of the players. They guess what some of the targets are, except for London, their own patch. He should be pleased. He is not. He wants Ros and Lucas back. Ros especially, whom he has come to love almost as a daughter, in whose emotionally closed mindset he recognises himself. He wants Derby out. He hates the younger man's superficiality, much as he admires the way he can become utterly professional and focused when the occasion demands it. It irks him that Ruth doesn't seem to realise that Derby is just a handsome glossy flirt, that outside the narrow confines of the job his character isn't worth a penny. It irks him that Derby can get her to laugh, and smile, in a way he himself never could. And he cannot stand the fact that he is allowing himself to be distracted by those two, at a crucial time in their battle against Nightingale.

He stands up suddenly. 'Right. We've done as much as we can for now. What we need to do is…sorry, I need to take this.' He pulls out his phone. His hand grips the back of his chair. His face has gone pale. 'I'm on my way'.

He hangs up, and looks at his team. He's haggard. 'That was the Home Secretary. His precedessor's body was fished out of the Channel four hours ago. Preliminary findings suggest that…that he had been tortured.'

Instinctively, Ruth reaches out. 'Harry..I'm so sorry. I know you liked him and…'

He gives her the briefest of nods. 'I need to go and see Lawrence. Ruth, you're coming with me. I want another pair of ears to listen to what he has to say. I've got to get something from my office first though. John, Tariq, you keep going,. Re-analyse everything we have got.'

As they walk down the stairs together, and in the car on the way to the private, expensive clinic where Lawrence is half recuperating/half reintroducing himself to government business, they remain silent, each locked in their own thoughts.

**3. **

Andrew Lawrence is propped up on a bed, surrounded with red boxes and paperwork, his personal secretary at hand. It looks as if he has moved his office to the clinic, more or less. He no longer seems like a young puppy eager to please. His face is older somewhow, sterner, more substantial. The explosion, Ros' critical condition, have tested his character. He came through, and it shows. That much Harry is forced to acknowledge.

'We will re do a systematic trawl of everything we've got, and everything we haven't got', Harry starts without preamble. 'Starting with CCTV cameras footage three weeks before the day we realised he had disappeared.'

Lawrence nods. 'Good. Any news on the possible London target?'

'No.'

'We're running out of time.'

'My agents are doing everything they can, Home Secretary', Harry says through gritted teeth. _He _can be tough on them, and demanding, but no one, and certainly not this politician, can criticise them.

Lawrence stares at him speculatively. He's noticed the tension between the head of the counter-terrorism section, and this analyst, Ruth Evershed. Mousy, non descript, blending with the wallpaper almost…but there is something in the way those two are not looking at each other which speaks of difficult business. His politician brain registers and files away for future reference. But he is not merely a politician out for the highest office in the land. He is also, as it happens, committed to his country.

'You don't like me', he states bluntly. 'Please. Don't insult my intelligence by denying it. You don't like me, and never have. Clearly I am no Nicholas Blake but…'

'No. Clearly not. He's dead, and you're alive.' From the corner of his eyes, he can see Ruth wincing at that remark, he can sense her sharp intake of breath. Right now, he doesn't care.

'_Just_, Sir Harry. _Just _alive. I was hoping that the fact they left me as good as dead would convince you that I am not part of Nightingale. I was obviously wrong about that. Let me tell you this, though. I might be young enough to be your son – well, almost. I might be a politician who needs to court public opinion on order to stay in office. But I am _not_ the insubstantial idiot you seem to think I am. Nor am I so ambitious as to be willing to authorise acts of terror against civilians abroad.' _Well, that got his attention_., he tells himself. 'I am absolutely determined to root Nightingale out, and see all the traitors punished as harshly as the laws of the land permit. And I will do this with you, or without you. So you have a choice. Either you work with me on this without treating me like a second rate official; or you're out.'

Harry's face is white with anger. 'You wouldn't dare', he almost hisses.

'Come, come, Sir Harry. I almost died a month ago, there's hardly anything I could not ask of the PM right now. Or of the DG of MI5 for that matter. If I want your head, I will have it. Right now, however, I happen not to want it. I need you too much….But there is a limit to what I am willing to put up with. Make no mistake about that.'

Harry gets up from his chair, and sits directly on the bed. He can't help admiring the young man, at this point – by his backbone, his frankness, his ruthlessness. 'Home Secretary', he begins softly, lethally, equally ruthless. 'Let me tell you this. You are not the first, in your position, to threaten me with the sack. Nor, dare I say, will you be the last. I will work with you against Nightingale. But if I ever find out that you have double-crossed me, or that you are part of this monstrous plot, I will _destroy_ you. _You _make no mistake about _that._' He lets the words sink in. 'Now, as we have established how much we dislike each other, can we get on with the business of figuring out what happened with Blake?' He fishes out a mobile phone from his pocket and hands it over to Lawrence. 'This is for you. My computer tech programmed it. It is entirely secure. And it can only dial one number. This one. Which has been programmed in the same way.' He pulls out a second mobile. You keep one, and I keep the other. That way, we will have constant, and unmonitored access to each other. Give this number to no one. And I do mean, no one. Ms Evershed here will be the only person in my staff who will know what those numbers are – for security. Any routine business, we conduct through regular channels. Even routine Nightingale business. Anything else, we go through those phones. Only those phones.'

_My God he is a wily old fox_, Lawrence can't help being impressed. 'You came here knowing that we would have no choice but to work together, didn't you?', he asks.

Harry nods, with the hint of a smile. 'What could Nicholas have known that they would torture him for? What kind of privileged information were _you _given by the PM when you were offered the job?'

Slowly, over the next hour, with Ruth taking notes, and not saying anything at all, they try and piece it together. They can't see it, though. But when Lawrence at last signals that their meeting is over (he still tires easily) the air is no longer crackling with hostility – at least, not so much of it. As Harry and Ruth are about to leave, Lawrence calls them back.

'Sir Harry?'

'Yes?'

'Any…any news of Ros Myers? I have had my staff ring up the hospital but as I'm not related to her they won't give me any information.'

Harry stares at him, thrown by the uncertain, almost pleading tone of the question. 'She's recovering', he says bluntly.

'Ah. Good. Very good….next time you see her, will you tell her that….how grateful I…I sent flowers but…'

'She does not need any distractions right now and…'

'I'll tell her', Ruth interjects. These are the first words she uttered since entering the room and both men look at her puzzingly, as if they had forgotten she was there. 'I'll tell her. She's asked about you too', she adds on an impulse, not caring that Harry is stiffening beside her.

Lawrence smiles, his first genuine smile of the afternoon. 'Really? Well, Ms Evershed…if you could pass on my regards and tell her that when she is better I will go and see her maybe? IF she'd like to, that is…'

Ruth answers the smile. 'I will', she repeats.

They leave the room, with a nod to the security officers guarding the door 24/7. AS soon as they are out of earshot, Harry turns to Ruth. 'Why did you do that for?' he asks angrily.

'What? Passing on his best wishes to Ros? Why not?'

He can't believe she doesn't see it. 'Do you honestly believe that it would be a good thing if those two were…My God. The last thing we need, the very _last _thing, is a vulnerable Ros reeled in by a Home Secretary whom I can't fully trust – and this in the middle of our most important operation.'

'First, you are insulting her by supposing that she would let whatever there might be between them affect her judgement. Second, _you _don't trust him. But others might. _I _do. And so does Ros, for all we know. It might be a good idea to cut him some slack, at this point.' She's getting angry with him, with his arrogance and high handedness. His conversation with the HS threw her too – yet another reminder of what he is capable of.

He grits his teeth. He hates it when she adopts that tone of voice, clipped, stern, formal. 'He wants to get close to her', he states stubbornly. 'I want to know why.'

'The facts that she is very beautiful and that she saved his life might have something to do with it'.

'Sarcasm doesn't suit you, Ruth', he shoots backs.

They stand across each other, irritated with each other, tense, very close, yet so far apart. She sighs. 'You're right. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that…' She's feeling exhausted, suddenly. And it shows. 'Come on', he says more softly. 'I'll have the driver takes you home. Take the evening off.'

'It's OK. I've got a choir rehearsal tonight anyway…John will drive me to it from the Grid, so I've got to get back.'

'I see', he says coldly, after a pause. 'Well. Let's go back, then.'

In the car, he asks her, boss to employee, what she thought of the conversation they have just had with Lawrence. She gives her views. He listens and comments. They get back to the Grid.

He locks himself up in his office, and draws the blinds down.

She sits at her desk, fingers hovering above her keyboard.

So far apart.


	3. Chapter 3

7

**Reckoning**** ch 3**

**Sorry for not posting earlier. Writing these fics takes ages….this chapter is a bit of a filler, sorry, but I need it to put certain things in place. ****It is also less tense, and intense, than the previous one – a bit of light relief, I guess, because things are going to heat up pretty soon!**

**Comments welcome if you have the time.**** Thanks! **

**1. **

'This way, Home Secretary'. The nurse steers him towards Ros' room. He hasn't seen Ros since the explosion but he has been thinking of her a lot. He owes her his life. Before those dramatic events, he was intrigued by her ruthlessness, her brains, her beauty, by her obvious desire to maintain things on a strictly professional level with him. He is not used to women's resisting his charms, and Ros's coolness is a welcome change. Now though, he is immensely grateful to her as well. A heady combination, he tells himself wryly, looking forward to seeing her at last, to talking to her, and to figuring out whether there still is a spark of chemistry between them. He pushes the door open.

'Ros, hello. I hope that this is a good….'

'Home Secretary.'

He turns round, plastering a professional politician smile on his face to hide his annoyance. 'Sir Harry. Good afternoon.'

'You look….well.'

'I am well. Ros? How are you?' He walks to her bed, where she is lying propped up with pillows.

'Andrew'. Her smile is wan, her skin pale, but the keen intelligence, the look of cool appraisal she gives him, are still there.

'I brought you some grapes', he says awkwardly, feeling somewhat like an adolescent on a first date.

She chuckles wearily. 'Thank you.'

They fall silent, both aware of Harry;s impassive presence. After what seems to them an eternity, Ros clears her throat. 'Harry was just bringing me up to date. I will be back at work in two weeks at the most and….'

'Surely not', he protest. 'You were in a coma as recently as three weeks ago, you can't possibly…'

'Home Secretary. You should not concern yourself with staffing arrangements at section D. That is my…'

'Oh come off it. I'm not here as the HS, I'm here as a.,,,as a friend. And I wouldn't be here at all in fact if it weren't for her, so all I meant to say is…'

Ros puts her hand on his, not really caring about Harry's frown. 'It's OK Andrew. I won't go into the field right away, and…I need to work. I really need to.' He looks dubious. 'I'll be fine.'

He has no choice but to demur. But he is damned if he will let Harry's presence interfere with what he came here to say. He bents towards Ros. 'When you are well, I would very much like to take you out to diner', he says softly. 'If you would like to, of course.'

Her smile is a promise, which he takes with him as he leaves, with a brief nod to Harry.

Harry walks over to the window, back to the other side of the room, back to the window again.

'Harry, stop this pacing, you're exhausting me', Ros chides gently.

She is gentler these days, Harry realises. Softer. 'Ros.'

'Don't say it' – not gently this time. A warning, rather.

'I know I can be tough, demanding, annoying…but as a boss, I don't normally pry into my people's private lives. I let them get on with it, provided it doesn't interfere with the service. But here, I have to ask….'

'We're not together, Harry.'

'Please. Don't insult my intelligence, Ros. I can see the way you two look at each other.'

Ros looks away – embarrassed, which is a rather new feeling for her. 'Look. It's just diner, OK? It doesn't mean that I will hop into bed with him after pudding or that I will spill service secrets during pillow talk.' She's being deliberately crude, to dispel her embarrassment, to provoke a reaction in Harry – _God I sound like his teenage daughter_ she tells herself.

He stares at her, uncompromisingly, until she looks away. 'As your boss', he says calmly, 'I will trust you not to pass on info to him behind my back. If I find out that you are doing this, you're out.'

'What if _he _fires _you_ and gives me your job?', she challenges. 'He's mentioned it to me, you know.'

'Has he now? How interesting. And what did you say?'

He doesn't sound angry, just amused, so she relaxes. 'That there's no way I would stay behind a desk. Which happens to be absolutely true.'

He chuckles. 'Good. So, as your boss, you know my position…as your friend…' He pauses to give her time to absorb what he has just said. 'As your friend, Ros…be careful. Please. He is attractive, young, highly successful, with a hint of vulnerability…you two match each other well. But…never forget, Ros. Never forget for a second that he is a politician, first, and foremost. So you watch out for yourself, yes?'

He's never used that tone before, soft, like a pur, concerned, affectionate…she feels the prick of tears in her eyes. _Don't_, she tells herself stiffly. _Don't cry in front of him_. 'How is Ruth?',she asks conversationally.

'Sorry?'

'Ruth. You know, our brilliant analyst? How is she?'

'Fine' – not gentle this time, not a pur, more like a curt growl.

'Good. Very good. Harry?'

'Yes?'

'I know I can be tough, demanding, annoying but…'

'Excuse me?'

'As an employee….I don't make it a habit to pry into my boss' private life. Unless it interferes with the service. Which it doesn't seem to do this time around. But…'

'Ros. Cut it out. Now', he demands through clenched teeth.

'But as a friend', she ploughs on, 'as a friend…_stop _being so careful. _Stop _being so scared to….'

She stops mid sentence. He's walked over to the window again, back to her, hands jammed in his pockets, rigid with tension. 'I know you mean well', he says at last, with obvious difficulty. 'And I'm grateful for it. But…I can't talk about this with you. Or with anyone else.'

She lets the sad, painful words resound in the silence of the room. He makes a visible effort to shake himself up. 'Come on. You need to get some rest. I'll be back tomorrow, hopefully with Lucas. Yes, Lucas…his rehabilitation has been spectacular considering, and he's dying to see you.'

He brushes her hand with his fingers gently, as he makes his way to the door.

She lies back on her pillows, wondering what will become of them all, as Nightingale are preparing for yet another battle.

**2. **

**A month later.**

He looks around the conference table – almost content, for once. Despite the enormous pressure, the relentless work, he is relishing the fact that for the first time since the explosion, he has his whole team with him – plus John of course, as Lucas and Ros are not up to demanding field work yet. His mood is almost jaunty this morning, as he sets out the agenda and steers the discussion, and communicates itself pretty quickly to all of them. They are togeteher again, John has gelled well with them all, helped by regular visits to Lucas and Ros in hospital. They are doing what they are best at – figuring things out, firing off ideas, analysing, dissecting, and coming up with plans.

_Almost_ content. _Almost _jaunty. For although Ruth is taking an active part in their brainstorming, he can tell that her heart is not in it. She is subdued, always knocks on his door before entering, rarely smiles at him. Sometimes he tells himself that he is getting used to it, that their time has passed. Other times, he finds it very painful. He went to her Beethoven concert, without telling her – a rare thing for him to do, snatching time away from the office in the middle of a major he couldn't not go. He could make her out from afar, singing in the altos section, giving herself to the music….At the end, he saw her with John from afar, laughing, her face alive with the adrenaline of the performance. He walked away to his car, defeated, resigned. For a few days afterwards, he watched them on the Grid like a hawk. He's pretty sure now that there is nothing going on between them. Thank God. He would not have been able to bear it otherwise.

He wants to talk to her, about her life since she has come back, his life, how she is settling in, his difficult relationship with his daugther…everything. And in those moments where he feels that urge of confiding in her, and resist it, he realises that what he misses the most is not so much what might have been between them,but their friendship.

But now, today, their first meeting at a whole team, he has no choice but to concentrate on the task at hand. He clears his throat. 'Right. People. Let's begin. First of all, welcome back to Ros and Lucas. Tariq, I am glad to inform you that their return will lead to a major improvement in my mood. Sorry for being such a grouchy old…well, enough said.' He pauses, almost emotional all of a sudden. 'No. Seriously. It's fantastic to have you back. Both of you. Even if one of you has suddenly become much busier in the evenings….sorry, Ros, but I _had _to mention it. No need to blush.'

'I wasn't certainly not blushing', Ros replies coolly, looking at him directly. She knows what he is doing: telling her that he has got her blessing- and that he is keeping a close eye on her developing relationship with Andrew Lawrence. She has also noticed the strain between him and Ruth – but has not said anything to him, or to Ruth, for that matter, about it.

'Right. Now. Nightingale.' Harry carries on, finding some refuge as ever in the harrowing and demanding details of their work. 'The good news is, the targets we thought they were going for seem confirmed. The bad new is that MI6 have uncovered intelligence suggesting that some of the cells are going to conduct at least two or three trial runs before the big attacks.'

'Why would they do that?', Tariq asks.

'To test us', Ruth says. 'To see how we respond – or not, in fact. To check out troop morale. To practice. Good rehearsals, good concert.'

'Spoken like a true musician', John quips.

'This is not particularly funny and…'

'No, you're right, Harry. Sorry.' John collects himself. 'So. We think that there will be a trial run in mainland Europe, and one in London. What can we do to narrow this down?'

'Press our assets, and liaise with our counterparts in Europe', Ros affirms. 'Lucas, I want you to get on the phone with the German, French, and Italian secret services and set up meetings.'

'Shouldn't we talk to the Vatican as well?', John ponders.

'Good thinking. They've got one of the best intelligence services in the world.', Harry concurs. 'All those priests and nuns running around the world…OK. Good. All we can do is keep at it, and wait until we have the information we need. I;m afraid that it's going to be a long, hard slog. Lucas, you liaise with the Germans and the Russians. John, you liaise with secret services in Egypt, and Syria. I want us to have at least one face to face meeting with every single one of them. Ros, once the French get back to us, you're coming to Paris with me.' He is firm, decisive, has a clear direction to navigate in the fog which Nightingale has created.

'Paris…keeping the plum assignements for yourself, eh Harry?', John jokes.

He doesn't find it remotely funny. In fact, he finds John's relentless attempts at humour increasingly irksome. _As soon as Lucas and Ros are fully back to speed he's out, _he tells himself.

'Tariq, Ruth, your job is to collect all relevant data and analyse here, on the Grid. You will be our central points of contact throughout. Meetings every morning and every afternoon, 11am and 4pm. Let's go.'

They all file out, but on an impulse, he says, 'Ruth, a word please?'

**3. **

He leads her to his office and shuts the door. 'I just wanted to see how…how you're doing', he asks tentatively. 'Generally, I mean.'

'Generally? I'm fine. In particular, too, in fact.'

'Good. That's….that's good.'

And once again, silence descends on the room. She can tell how uncomfortable he is feeling, how fidgety he is. But she simply doesn't know how to breach through his walls. Or, for that matter, to climb over hers and land on the other side – his side. She wishes he hadn't initiated this chat, which, like so many of their non work related conversations these days, turns out to be excruciatingly awkward.

'You were right about Ros', Harry says suddenly, out of the blue.

'What do you mean?'

'Well, about her and Lawrence. She seems…softer…'

'She's happy. It's as simple as that. She's met her match.' To her relief he does not seem to pick up on the hint of wistfulness and regret in her voice. 'Look, I'd better get back to work', she says hurriedly.

'Ruth…' he calls out softly, almost a sigh.

She turns round, 'Yes, Harry, what it is?' she asks brightly, and blandly, seemingly unaware of the longing in his voice.

He shakes his head. 'Nothing. It's nothing. Tell…tell the others that I am off to a briefing with Lawrence. I'll be back in two hours.'

With a nod, she's gone, and he;s left standing there, desolate.

With a gesture of his hand, he shuts his office door, and she is left making her way back to her station, desolate.


	4. Chapter 4

7

**Reckonings ch ****4**

**This chapter is not for the fainthearted…enjoy!**

**1.**

'Ruth?'

She looks up from her station, eyes garded, as ever these days. He clears his throat. 'I'm afraid Ros isn't well enough yet to accompany me to Paris. She'll stay here with Tariq and John and cover the London of the operation. So I'm afraid that you'll have to come with me.'

'To _Paris_?'

'Yes.'

'But…but surely you might need a field agent. Why not take John instead? Or even Lucas? _He _is well enough now….' She is flustered, caught on the wrong foot, but she would do more or less anything to avoid going.

He averts his yes. 'No. John has got to stay here. So does Lucas. Our priority is the London side of things. It's very unlikely that I'll need a field agent in Paris, but I'll definitely need an analyst. That leaves me very little choice. Sorry, Ruth.' He can tell she's not thrilled by the idea – to say the least. Nor is he: the potential for awkward and difficult moments is more or less unlimited here, not to mention the old memories of Havensworth, of their stilted and difficult conversation in the corridor of that hotel, what preceded that conversation…he doubts that _she_ would remember: Unlike him, she's lived a full life since then, she has known the multifaceted intimacy of a proper relationships…so why would she remember?

'Fine', she states shortly. 'Shall I make travel arrangements?'

'It's been taken care of. We leave on the Eurostar tomorrow morning. We'll be back the day after.'

_What about my life, _she wants to say. _I might have had plans, I might not be able to leave, just like that, with hardly any notice_….but of course, she doesn't have a life, she doesn' t have plans, as he knows full well. She grits her teeth. 'Fine. I will have all relevant briefings on your desk by the end of the day.'

He looks at her for a few seconds. _One day, _he thinks, _we'll have to clear the air between us, to find our way back to our friendship even though there can be nothing more than that. But not now…I don't have the strength for this now. Now is not the time_…

He nods a worldless thank you, and goes back to his office.

She turns back to her screen, without seeing it.

**2. **

As usual, when they start analysing and dissecting Nightingale, while the Eurostar takes them to Paris, they somehow manage to put unspoken tensions and unexplored exasperation behind them. Miraculously, they check into their separate bedrooms, at a lovely hotel which Harry knew from his stint in Paris, without too much awkwardness. Harry's bedroom, a suite really, has been organised into a temporary office and debugged by the French secret services. Hers is a few doors down the corridor – not too close then, which suits her fine. They meet in the lobby half an hour after checking-in, and are taken to the French 'Thames House' by armoured car.

And then, the troubles begin. The conversation unfolds in English and French – both Ruth and Harry can speak the language, but their host, Harry's counterpart, curteously insists on using both. He is charming, clever, in his mid forties, good-looking, with the right balance of humour and seriousness. He is very friendly to Ruth. Very obviously married too, but he makes Harry feel his age and lack of social graces. Not a good start, then.

And it gets worse. Much worse, in fact, as Pierre Bernard outlines his service's latest thinking on the French wing of Nightingale.

'I'm sorry', Pierre Bernard says, with a typical gallic shrug. 'But if we move in on this network now, we risk showing our hand too quickly and exposing our undercover agent. If we do that, we will lose a chance to get them all.'

'So. Let me summarise', Harry says bluntly. 'You have evidence that the French wing are about to manipulate a bunch of teenage extremists into blowing a bomb at a High School here in Paris; in fact, you have intelligence about which high school. You also believe that they will make it look as if the bomb could only have been made by Al Quaida trained engineers; that they are going to do this in order to test the strength of your government response, and that if they are satisfied with that response, or rather, lack of effective one, they will then move on to the big thing, which we all think is the Eiffel Tower during the music festival on June 20th. And your view is that you let them do this, in order to catch the big fish, even though it would mean letting dozens of students die.'

'_En gros…_basically, yes. _Allons_, Harry…If the same situation presented itself to you in London, you would do the same.'

_Please say you wouldn't,_ Ruth prays inwardly. _Please say you wouldn't_…_please tell me that the man I love despite everything would not condone this._

But Harry remains silent. He walks over to the windows overlooking the Seine river, hands in his pockets, his back on all of them - on Ruth too. He knows what she is thinking, what she is remembering…._Could I do this again?_, he mulls. _Could I condone sacrificing the lives of children for the sake of saving even more children…._He doesn't know anymore. And today, right now, he wishes that he were not doing this job, that he didn't have to make decisions like this, that he could escape from those terrrible responsibilities. Today, he wants to walk through Paris, and enjoy the cafés, and the museums…with her. Of course, with her. How could it not be? How could he kid himself that he was getting used to the distance between them? Unbidden, a fragment of a conversation with Ruth rushes to his memory…_I often dream of doing the Grand Tour_, he remembers telling her on the one and only occasion when they had diner together. And of course Paris is what he had in mind; and of course he pressed her too hard, too much, too soon, that night…

His shoulders sag. He feels crushed by the moral, intellectual, and emotional burden of his job. _This is absurd_, he tells himself angrily. _Here am I, having to decide on matters of national security, and all I can think about is a diner years ago, the highlight of my…relationship, if you can call it that, with her…_ He turns round to face them all again, to face her. His face is a forbidding mask, his voice cold, but he's inwardly seething with anger at himself for being stuck in the past, unable to move on, unable too to bracket off his emotions and feelings – and for allowing himself always to be put in a situation wher he has to make life-and-death-decisions.

'I can't tell you what to do', he states with more calm than he really feels. 'This is happening on French soil, and your government alone can decide on the best course of action.'

'Harry', Ruth pleads. 'Harry. Pierre. Please. Is there not a way around this? Can we not at least explore other options?'

Bernard shakes his head. 'We've been through this, Ruth. We've looked at it…_dans tous les sens. _How do you say it? From all angles? There's no other way.'

'But…'

'Ruth', Harry interjects. 'There's not point in going over this.'

'Surely, we…'

'Enough!', he says through clenched teeth. He's never used that tone with her before: sharp, almost military in its refusal to countenance a challenge, but he's had it really, and wants to get their long distance briefing with Ros, Lucas and John over with. He turns to Bernard. 'We 'll go back to the hotel now and liaise with my team from there, before we head back to London tomorrow on the 8am train. All I ask is that you keep us posted. This will make it easier for us to trace…repercussions…on the British wing. Ruth?'

He leads her out, into the waiting car, back at the hotel, keenly and painfully aware of the tension in her. They do not say a word in the car; they remain resolutely silent in the lift; he opens the door to his suite, and goes straight for the computer and its secure line to Thames House. It takes him 15 mns to summarise what their long day, in short, clipped sentences.

When he is done, Ruth is standing in the far corner. Erect, wide eyed. Upset. 'Ruth', he say softly.

**3. **

'How can you? These are just kids. _Kids_, Harry. Not merely the victims, but the bombers too, who of course will die in this. How can you stand there, and calculate numbers, and let this happen, and…'

He walks to her, torn between wanting to comfort her and his growing anger at himself, at her too. 'What choice do I have?! _This _is not London. I have no jurisdiction here, no standing, nothing. Besides…'

'Besides what?', she challenges him.

'He's got a point', he says in a low, strained voice. 'If it had been on our patch…if it had been Lucas' life at stake, undercover…and lives of thousands of…I don't know what…'

She snorts, half a cry really. 'Oh, but I do know what you would have done. We've been there before, haven't we? At that point where _you_ decide whose life has more value, who gets to live and who gets to die….'

'Ah, so that's what it is about really! Nico….George…for all your talk of being unfair on me for holding me responsible, _this_ is what you come back to today! Well, I decide because I don't have a choice! Because _someone_ has got to decide and sometimes that person happens to be me! Do you think I _wanted _Mani to capture me? Do you think I _wanted _him to get to you? To make me choose between Nico and the thousands of children who would have died had Mani got hold of the bomb?! No! But I tell you what, Ruth! In that job, we have no choice! And it's all well and good to say that it's easy, to say that we should never sacrifice lives for the sake of other lives! But my God it's cowardly! Because…'

'I don't want to listen to this', she grinds out, moving away from him.

He gets hold of her, by the shoulders, almost roughly. 'You _will_ listen!', he shouts. 'Because you too, one day, might have to make that kind of decision! And when you do, _if _you do, then before you conclude that you can let thousands die – thousands, Ruth – for the sake of three dozens, then ask yourself about those thousands of children! Ask yourself about the hell in which your decision will plunge their parents, their brothers, their sisters…Except that you can't really imagine, can you, because you don't have children of your own…' He is so caught up in his rage that he does not notice how pale she has just become at those words. 'But still, even though you can't have a clue, you'll have to try and imagine it! And when you've done that, and decided that it is worth it, then and only then you can come back and tell me that I am morally and emotionally inept for even considering the other option!'

He hasn't let go of her yet. He is standing so close to her that she can feel the heat radiating from his body, she can smell his scent, a mixture of sweat, aftershave and adrenaline, she can hear and sense his heavy breathing as clearly as if it were her own breathing and at last, at long last, she can see the wrenching despair in his eyes..

'I don't think that's what you are…', she whispers, overcome by waves of guilt and sorrow. 'I'm sorry, I shouldn't…'

'And one other thing', he grinds out obliviously. 'While you're at it, ask yourself what _you _would have done if Nico hadn't been your lover's son, but any other child! If you had had to choose between him and his father! Or him and m…' He catches himself just in time, unable to go on, exhausted by his outburst, scared of disclosing too much.

'Please, Harry', she says brokenly. Her eyes, wide, a changing mixture of grey and blue which he loves so much, seem to explore every inch of his face. He stares at her, and suddenly becomes aware of the rapid rise and fall of her chest, of the feel of her shoulders under his hands….

Afterwards, neither of them would ever be able to say who made the first move.

**4. **

He's lying on top of her, heart hammering in his chest, his breadth ragged, stunned by what has just happened, his clothes in disarray, acutely aware of the tremors of release still coursing them both of their bodies…

After a few moments, he takes his weight off her. There's so much he wants to say. Apologies, of course, for losing his temper, but mostly words of love… He turns his head towards her. She's half naked, dishevelled, her skirt pulled up around her waist, her blouse undone, her lips full, almost bruised. She is crying, silently, tears streaming from the corner of her eyes. She won't meet his gaze.

His heart breaks. 'I'm sorry', he says, shame and self-disgust filling his voice. 'This should never have happened. And it won't happen again. Ever.'

She stiffens and turns away from him. Wordlessly, he gets up and locks himself into the bathroom. When he emerges twenty minutes later, she has gone – as he had hoped. She's left a note on his desk. _I'm going back to London now, on the last train. Right now, all I want is to be alone. R. _He lets the note slide between his fingers onto the floor and sinks on a chair, as far away as he can from the sofa on which, half an hour ago, he put an explosive end to years of self-imposed abstinence and destroyed his most cherished friendship. He stays there, motionless, for a long time. Shortly before midnight, with a shaky hand, he dials the secure number he always uses for urgent and sensitive communications with the Home Secretary.

**5. **

She is huddled against the window of her Eurostar coach. It's not cold, but she _feels _cold. She hasn't stopped feeling cold since Harry left her lying on the couch to go and clean himself off her. She closes her eyes, painful and red from crying. Images and sounds from the previous night fill her mind, noisily, invasively…although it all happened very fast, and was over very quickly, she replays the movie in a loop, in slow motion…she pictures herself in that movie, wanton, demanding, giving too, letting go more fully and more completely than she ever had…She pictures Harry too, his face harsh with desire, his long, final shout of release almost animalistic in its intensity….

And she can still hear him afterwards… she'd barely come down from the summit, shaken by what they had just shared, years of self-denial erased in a single moment, the tears a sign of her vulnerability…and then his voice, the words he used, coloured by disgust, anger, rejection…

The train pulls into St Pancras shortly before midnight. She gets into her flat at 1am. She does not sleep that night.

At 9am on the dot, she sits at her desk on the Grid, and places a call to Personnel.


	5. Chapter 5

6

**The first section of this fic is just a dialogue, with nothing else. I have tried to capture the dynamics between Harry and the HS, purely through what they say, without any indication as to their mood, body language, tone of voice, etc. I'd be interested to know what you think!**

**1. **

**Home Office, 9am**

'Sir Harry. Come in.'

'Home Secretary.'

'So. What was so important that you needed to use the secure line to set up this appointment?'

'I'm afraid that I have no choice but to offer my resignation. Effective now.'

'Excuse me?'

'You heard.'

'Yes. Which is not to say that I _understood_.'

'I no longer believe that I am the right person to lead the fight against Nightingale.'

'I see. 48 hours ago, you were. Now, you're happened in Paris?'

'There are…operational details which I would rather not get into, Home Secretary.'

'Operational details. I see…So. You are resigning in the middle of one of the most important operations you have ever conducted. An operation whose aims is to avert one of the most serious threats, if not _the _most serious, which this country has faced since the end of the second world war. Even though your team is still under strength. And you are asking me to accept your resignation, without giving any reasons for it. Are you joking?'

'Do I strike you as the jocular type, Home Secretary?'

'No, Sir Harry. Far from it. But you do strike me as the _loyal_ and _professional _type. As the type who would _not _desist from doing his duty by his country.'

'Indeed. Take it, then, that it is precisely _because_ I am that type that I must have a very good reason for making that request. And take it, too, that I have given a lot to my country. God knows….Home Secretary?'

'Let me think about this for a few moments….Well. I am not minded to accept it. At least not now. But we can revisit the issue in two months.'

'But that's…'

'Two months, Sir Harry. Hopefully, plenty of time to eliminate Nightingale. Then, we shall see.'

'Home Secretary, I must insist that…'

'No. I'm sorry but until you give me your reasons, I cannot properly assess whether or not you are the right person for heading section D. And given the splendid job that your team, led by you, has done so far, I see no reason to think that you cannot go on.'

'I'm sorry…but I cannot tell you why.'

'Well, in that case, that's settled. Two months. Oh, and I will not tell any member of your team that we have had that conversation.'

'I would expect no less, Home Secretary….There's something else.'

'Yes?'

'An small scale operation which I think we should…attempt.'

'Oh really? Five minutes ago you were asking to be permitted to resign effective today; and now you are mounting an operation the details of which you must have worked through overnight. How odd.'

'I had…planned for the fact that you might deny my request.'

'Ever the planner, Sir Harry…ever the planner. Tell me though. I thought that you didn't want to share operational details with me.'

'Well. This is different. The kind of operation which you will have no choice but to deny knowledge of. Which, if it fails, will land your government into serious trouble.'

'I see. I take it that your team….?'

'I will put it to two members of my team – Lucas North and John Derby - later this morning.'

'Oh. Why not the others? Why not, in particular, Ros Myers? Or Ms Evershed? Did you not talked to her about it last night, in Paris? Sir Harry? Is everything alright?'

'I'm fine. Really. Regarding Ros….I don't think she is recovered enough for this…besides….'

'Besides…?'

'If this operation fails, you will have no choice but to sack the two agents who will be on the frontline. And…well, let's say that I don't want Ros to risk being given the sack by you. Of all people.'

'How extraordinary. You do have a softer side. Ros had told me, but I did not believe her. What happened to 'never let your personal life interfere with the job…sorry? What did you say? I did not quite catch that.'

'I was saying that sometimes…sometimes, it can't but interfere. As for….for…Ms Evershed. Let's just say that I see no real need to get her involved in this. The fewer people in the know, the better.'

'So why are you informing me? If I am to deny knowledge…'

'You know as well as I do that it's sometimes easier to deny knowledge if one knows exactly what it is one is denying.'

'You do know that, strictly speaking, only the PM can authorize those operations.'

'Strictly speaking, yes. But we can't be 100% sure, can we, that your boss…'

'He's your boss too, Sir Harry.'

'Quite. That _our _boss is not implicated. Or that someone of his entourage is not. So I would rather not go through him. And I _would_ rather have the authorization of a senior member of the Cabinet. Correction. _Your _authorization.'

'Fair enough. Fire away, then….I see. Are you sure that…? And the French? A few ruffled feathers, I should think…Right. Well. Yes. You do have my permission. From that point onwards, do _not_ keep me informed, though. Are we clear?'

'Perfectly clear, Home Secretary.'

'Good. Let me see you out…..And…Harry? Good luck.'

**2. **

**Thames House, 10:30am.**

The Grid is full – everyone working at their station. Ruth too. He can't see her face: she doesn't look up, and he is so tired from his agonising, sleepless night, and his taut, tense encounter with the HS, that he is struggling to focus.

He goes straight away to his office, having motioned Lucas and John in. He positions himself behind his desk, leaving him to stand in front of him. He knows he is about to ask a lot of them. But he does not see any other way.

'Lucas. John. I'm going to ask you to do something which, if it ever came to light, would have you fired. I would get fired too, but that should not affect your judgement. I am not giving you an order. You are entirely free to say no. And if you do say no, we shall say not discuss it ever again. But if you decide to do it, and if you succeed…you will have helped save the lives of dozens of school children. One more thing, before I explain what I have in mind. No one on the Grid, and I do mean, _no one_, can be told. The only person who knows, at this point, is the Home Secretary.'

'What about Ruth?', John asks – not entirely innocently: he did notice, earlier in the morning, Ruth's exhausted face and obvious unhappiness. And he is noticing, right now, Harry's drawn features, the dark circles under his eyes, the lassitude in his voice. _What on earth happened in Paris_, he asks himself.

'What _about_ Ruth?', Harry snaps.

'Well, normally, you keep her informed of…'

'Why is it that everyone seems to think that I tell Ruth everything that is going on here?', Harry says through gritted teeth. 'I repeat, _no one_, and yes, however bizarre this may sound, that includes Ruth, must know. Are we clear?'

'Very clear.'

'Good. Now. This is what I have in mind.'

Ten minutes later, he stops, at last. Then, 'believe me, if I could do it, I would. But I can't. And of everyone here…only you two can deliver.'

'What about Ros?'

'She's not fully recovered. Look. If you fail, the service will describe you as rogue agents. You will be completely discredited. So will I. And lots of children will die. I can't afford to take the risk of sending someone out who is not physically up to it. Now. Can I begin to explain? Good. Here it goes.'

Ten minutes later, he stops. He has outlined his plan. He is watching them intently, gaging their reactions. They look at each other, ask a few more questions, refine some of the details….they both nod. He feels almost limp with relief.

One difficult task down. One more to do. The hardest.

**3. **

She heards his footsteps before she saw him. He went straight to his office. He didn't even look at her. Well. That would figure, she tells herself bleakly. She doesn't see how she can face him now – how she can talk to him, work with him, whilst she can still feel the imprint of his body on hers, _in _hers. Her eyes are sore from crying and lack of sleep. She looks awful, feels awful…she stares at her screen, the characters dancing meaninglessly in front of her. She's prepared a letter. She was hoping that she would be able to leave it on his desk before he would get in, and then disappear allegedly to run some errands; but her meeting with Personnel took longer than expected, so now she is stuck here, the white envelope glaring at her, begging to be delivered.

'Ruth?'

She starts. This time, she hadn't heard him. He doesn't look particularly fresh either.

'We need to talk. Now.'

She looks at him for a long time, her face hopefully giving nothing away. She nods. 'The roofterrace. I'll be there in ten minutes.'

-


	6. Chapter 6

3

She's made it before him, and as he slowly emerges from the staircase, he can see her profile. She is looking over the city – _how many times_, he tells himself, _how many times have we stood there together, trying to make sense of the world in which we live, relying on each other not to tell anyone else about our conversations_….But now is not the time to reminisce. Now is the time to find a way forward, somehow, as if Paris hadn't happened.

She must have heard him come up, because she turns round towards him. He cannot read her mood off her face. She seems calm, collected, distant too. So different from the woman he was holding in his arms two night ago, who clung to him so urgently, who gave, who took…_stop it! _he orders himself furiously. _You can't go there…you've got to forget about it!_

He walks over to her, she moves away to face the city skyline.

'How are you?' he asks, hesitantly.

She shrugs. 'Fine. Considering.'

He clears his throat. 'Ruth, I don't have the words to express….this should never, ever have happened. I don't know…I don't know what came over me. I…'

'Harry', she cuts him off, 'let's put it down to…to stress, exhaustion, feelings running high, being away from it all…It's not as if we need a debriefing and…Anyway. I need to give you this', she says, handing out the white envelope she has been clutching in her hands.

'A _debriefing?! _Is that how….never mind. What is this?'

'My resignation. I spoke to Personnel. I'll have to serve my two month's notice of course, but the first step is to inform you formally that I intend to leave.'

'Your resignation?! No, Ruth, no! You shouldn't feel you have to leave because of me and…'

'It's not just Paris. It's….' _It's you, and what I feel for you, and how torn I am between loving you and dealing with how harsh you can be sometimes, and the fact that you obviously don't feel that way anymore, and how much I want you and…_She bites her lips, her eyes prickly with tears. 'I can't work here anymore. Coming back after what happened …that was a mistake. It seemed right at the time but…'

He doesn't notice the sheen of tears in her eyes. He only hears the rejection, the bitterness too. 'You don't have to do this, Ruth. You'll still need a job and…' He takes a deep breath. 'I offered my resignation to the Home Secretary this morning. As of now. He…'

'_You_ want to resign?! Why? Because you slept with me? That must have gone down well. Anyway. This is ridiculous. You're the head of the anti-terrorism section in the middle of a major operation. You can't just resign because you've had an ill-judged one night stand with one of your staff. My God, half the senior civil service and the Cabinet would have to be replaced every year at that rate…the country would be ungovernable.'

'I'm trying to do the right thing, Ruth! And believe me, this is not easy!' He takes a deep breath. 'Lawrence rejected my request for now, but will reconsider it in two months. He's hoping we will have got rid of Nightingale by then. So, in two months, I…'

'Two months. Well. I suppose we'll have to grin and bear it, then', she says flatly.

And suddenly, he's had enough – enough of her anger, of her coldness. 'I'm not the only one to blame, Ruth', he says through clenched teeth. 'You were there too.' He pauses. 'And God knows I can still feel the scratches on my back', he adds implacably, ruthlessly, taking out his frustration on her.

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he wants to take them back. She has gone very pale. 'You b….d', she whispers. 'You….b…d.'

He looks away, ashamed of himself. They stand there, hands clenched into their pockets, rigid with pain, and guilt. After an eternity, he speaks again, and he sounds more tired, more drained, than she has ever heard him sound. 'We've got to work together for two months. We've got no choice. So let's try and get through this, as best as we can.'

She nods, utterly spent. 'I wasn't…I wasn't blaming you, you know…I was… I _am _angry with myself.'

He sighs. 'Well, I know the feeling. I'm sorry for what I just said. Truly sorry. And, Ruth?'

'Yes?'

He doesn't want to raise the issue. He really doesn't. But he has to, really. 'It all happened so…so fast. So we didn't…we weren't particularly careful. If…if there are any…repercussions, you will let me know, won't you? I wouldn't want you to…'

'Repercussions? You mean…Oh. I see. Well. Don't worry. There won't be any.'

'Are you sure? Because if there are, if you…'

'Harry.' Something in her voice silences him. He looks at her. She can't seem to bring herself to meet his eyes. 'I can't have children. So you've got nothing to worry about.'

'Oh Ruth', he says, aghast. 'I'm so sorry, I'm…'

'I don't want your pity. I can't bear it frankly. So please. Just….just leave it, OK?' And this time, he can see how fragile her composure is, how shaky her hands are. He raises his hand, in an automatic gesture of comfort. She flinches away. 'Just. .', she says, harshly.

He watches her go, silently begging her to turn back and look at him.

She doesn't.


	7. Chapter 7

9

**Reckoning ch 7**

**For the purpose of this fic, I am taking liberties**** with the truth as regards who is power in the UK, who the monarch is, etc. **** This is a long chapter, but I needed it to put some bits of the story in place. I hope you enjoy it!**

**1**.

He gives himself half an hour, alone on the roof terrace, to gather his strength and collect his thoughts, before going back to the Grid. Half an hour to try and put his conversation with Ruth behind him. He can't. Her words 'I can't have children' sear into him. For the first time, he fully grasps what she lost, with George's death: her lover, her companion, but also, through Nico, the closest she had got, she would perhaps ever get, to motherhood. He remembers the accusation he flung at her, during their row – _you don't have children of your own, so you can't understand what it is like to lose your own child…._He closes his eyes, pained beyond description by the hurt he seems to keep causing her, again and again…

And so he makes a resolution. _From now on_, he tells himself, _I will keep away from her. I'll be her boss, and nothing else. I will forget about last night, what it was like to hold her, to feel her against me…. I won't try and imagine what it would have been like to be with her properly…In two months, it'll be over. Two months. How hard can it be?_

Immensely hard, as it turns out.

**2. **

He goes back to the Grid, notices that everyone is at their station, working hard, absorbed in the information reeling off their computer screens. Even Ruth.

He gets everyone to join him in the meeting room. 'All right everyone. Now listen. Here is what we know.' He summarises all the information which they have managed to gather. 'We have very little time. We need to go back to the beginning, and try to see what we have missed, what we could have done better. Any thoughts?' His tone is firm, calm, composed, focused. Ruth can't quite believe that he is the same man who, only the night before…she pushes the thought away firmly. _Don't_. _Don't even think about it_, she tells herself furiously.

'We need to go back to the murder of Nicholas Blake', Lucas says. 'We haven't really got anywhere there. But I think that this is the key. At least for the UK angle.'

'I agree', Harry concurs. 'They haven't released his body yet. But clearly, with the evidence of torture, the coroner will have no choice but to…yes, Ruth?'

She clears her throat. 'The police apparently found sado-masochistic porn photos on his laptop. Hundreds of them, apparently.'

'What?! How did you find that out anyway? Actually, don't answer that. I don't want to know.' He clenches his fists. 'This is preposterous. The b…ds. They're going to pass his death off as a sordid sado-masochistic tryst gone wrong, which will blacken his reputation even more.' He is livid with anger. 'What more do you know?'

'Well, the Met Commissioner himself is apparently very insistent that the news should be released at a press conference first thing tomorrow morning.'

'So he too is on it', John states. 'He must be. In fact, for an operation of that kind…you've got to have the senior brass on board.'

'By that token', Ros points out, 'that means some of the top army officers as well.'

Harry sighs. 'Yes. Of course. It must be. The question is, which ones. I find it hard to believe that all four of the Chief of Staff, Head of the Army, First Sea Lord, and Air Chief Marshall would….'

'We need to put listening taps on them', Ros concludes. 'Mount surveillance, organise…'

'We can't do that!'

'Sorry, Tariq?'

'We can't just…just…_bug_ the offices and homes of those guys! I mean…together, they control all of the military, they're…' Tariq blusters.

'We can, and we will', Harry says firmly. 'Tariq, you have got to understand: no one, and I mean, no one, is immune. So I want you to do this, and in such a way as to evade the most sophisticated anti-bugging equipment. Do you think you can do it?' He is playing on the young man's professional pride and bravado- not particularly subtle, but obviously effective, given the look of affront which Tariq throws at him.

'So, Blake?', Lucas interjects. 'Why was he tortured? Why now? Why not while he was Home Secretary? What did he know that they wanted? Was it something he knew as Home Secretary? Something he knew as Nicholas Blake, private citizen? What was it? I can't think of anything.'

They sit in silence, mulling it over. Ruth looks away into the Grid, through the glass panel, needing to escape from Harry's sight to concentrate…she fixes her eyes onto one of the TV screens, absent-mindedly. 'My God…' she whispers.

'Ruth? Ruth? Are you alright?'

She doesn't hear them. Her mind is solely focused on the screen, computing possibilities, figuring out possible outcomes and strategies. 'My God', she whispers again.

'Ruth? Would you please tell us what' going on?' Harry's sharp, tense call brings her back to the room. She is white as a sheet, and scaring them. 'I think I know what they wanted from him', she says simply. 'What is the one piece of information which the Home Secretary will know before anyone else except the Prime Minister, the PM's Chief of Staff, the PM's chief political adviser and the PM's wife? The one thing that a network planning a huge, anti-democratic coup…'

'This is not a guessing game!', Harry snaps, his patience close to breaking point.

She stares at him, seemingly oblivious to his anger. 'The exact date for the general election', she states simply. 'He would have known that ages before anyone else. Before us. He would have to. First of all, he was one of the PM's most trusted senior cabinet members. Second of all, as Home Secretary, he is in charge of the police and us – which means all the security arrangements in the months before the vote, during voting day, and during counting. That's what they wanted to know.'

'My God. It makes perfect sense', Harry says, in a toneless voice. 'Create chaos on election day, disrupt the counting, no one really knows what's going on; stage strikes and a few attacks in the major cities at the same time. Throw in a couple of assassinations of major political figures…and the stage is set. Especially if they have the Met Commissioner on board, and some senior military brass for good measure. Declare a state of emergency. And put pressure on the King to appoint their man as Prime Minister, irrespective of the election results since of course, we won't _know _the results.' He shakes his head. 'Beautifully simple. They couldn't afford to get to Nicholas while he was still in post. So they waited until he was out…he made it easy for them actually.'

'Why?', Ros asks.

'He refused to be subject to the special security measures which all former Home Secretaries traditionally enjoy', Ruth said. 'He said that this was a left over from the IRA bombing campaigns and that since Northern Ireland is no longer a problem there was no reason for this.'

They all stare at her. Lucas shakes his head in wonder. 'How do you know…forget it. Anway, when is the election?' he asks, shaken, in the resounding silence.

'May 4', Harry, Ros and Ruth reply at the same time.

'How did you guys know?'

'I got a memo from the DG just before leaving for Paris. Ros, no need to tell us how you found out, we can all guess. Ruth? How did you…please don't tell me that you have got a contact somewhere who….'

She smiles. Thinly. 'They've just announced it on television. I caught the headlines. That's what made me think of it.'

'But this doesn't make sense!', Lucas says. 'Why would they need to torture Blake to find out, a mere month or so before the news get public?'

'They couldn't know that the PM would choose to make it public so soon. There's been speculation for months now…', Harry counters. 'Right. Here is the thing. We think that this is what they are trying to do in the UK.' He looks away from Ruth. 'We're going to let the French worry about their side of the conspiracy for now, though I will tell Bernard about our own problem. I'll tell the cousins too, obviously. They've got their onw mid term elections in the autumn to worry about. For now, our task is pretty simple really: stop Nightingale from jeopardising the general election. And we need to do this even though we don't know, first, who amongst the police and the army is in on it, second, whether the PM himself, and/or the two leaders of the opposition parties are in on it too, third, who other top figure in the media and business are supporting and financing this. Not to say the head of the electoral commission, the Secretary for Constitutional Affairs, the Attorney General…..Christ. Right now, the only two people in government I am 100% of are the Home Secretary and the King. Who is not even in government. As for the service….'

He stops, he shakes his head, exhaustion and despair overcoming him. Ros looks at Ruth briefly, noticing how studiously Ruth avoids looking at Harry… 'As for the service, we can trust the DG, and heads of sections A and B. C, we're not sure. They handle estates so we don't have to worry too much about them, but still, to be on the safe side, we don't ask them for extra manpower', she states resolutely. 'OK. So this is what we do. I brief Andrew – well, forgive me Harry for not referring to him as the Home Secretary, but really this is not the time for niceties, now is it? – Right. So I brief Andrew, and get him to agree, orally, to putting taps on every single major political and military figure. Tariq, Ruth, you will listen to everything we get. You'll need help. Get Sebastian, Liz, Mark, Matthew and Rory to help you. I have checked them out myself, they can be trusted. Ruth, can you organise the rota? Good. John, Lucas, you need to get an up to date list of members for all three main parties. Check out anyone who has joined since Blake was abducted. Ideally we would…'

'Ros, sorry but…', John interject, immediately silenced by a glare from Harry.

Ros barely pauses, mildly annoyed at the interruption. 'Ideally we would look at all party members, but we don't have the time. So Ruth, activate your contacts in all three parties, and put out feelers: who joined recently, who is particularly keen to help during the counting, that kind of thing. Pass on what you find to Lucas and John for checking. Also, we need to know about properties recently put on the market, for sale or renting, in a ..let's see. 1 mile radius of the homes and constituencies office of senior party members – again, all three parties. Ditto with party headquarters in London. Check out buyers, tenants, and so on. The usual routines. Got it? Good. Harry?'

'I agree with Ros. A couple of other things. One, this, all of it, stays strictly us. The people you enlist for help, Mark, Liz, the others…they are not to know, under any circumstances, why they are doing what you ask them to do. Two – and this one is for all of you, but especially for you, Ruth. You are not, under any circumstances, to 'put out feelers', as Ros put it, with the Royal Family. I know you have contacts there, at the highest level but…'

'How do you know? I've never said anything here…' she protests.

'Please. Give me some credit. For a start I have yet to encounter an institution which is safe from you. Besides, I know your file. You were at Oxford with the King's sister in law. She wasn't as good a student as you of course, a 2.1 instead of a Double First but you were quite close were at one point, weren't you …'

'Yes, well…' Ruth is embarrassed. By his broadcasting her academic achievements and her connections. By the intimate knowledge he has just disclosed of her file. 'Look. I know her. Why can't I…'

'No. You don't go near them. Do you hear me? This as a direct order. Anyone, and I mean anyone, in this room, who disobeys at that order, will be dismissed from this unit and transferred to the traffic wardens unit. If you desperately want to regulate the traffic on Trafalgar Square for the next ten years, this is your chance. Otherwise, you do not, I repeat, do _not_, touch the Royals. …'

'So we can't even bug their phones?', Tariq asks, disappointed.

Harry stares at him, astounded by the young man's naivety. 'Tariq. We've been bugging them on a 24/7 basis since…well. You get the picture. Except that since they got burned by some idiotic amateur journalist they're very careful about what they say on the phone.'

'Precisely', Lucas interjects, 'if Ruth has that kind of connection…and I actually know one of the secretaries at Buckingham Palace too…why not try and see who…'

'Because Buckingham Palace is a viper's nest which is so leaky with rumours and confidential information as to make the 1953 London flood look like a puny Highlands stream. And it could be that the day after the elections, when all hell breaks loose, the King will be our best bet. But that won't work if someone, somewhere, is tipped off that we have that trump card up our sleeve.'

'Yes. Yes' Ruth concurs. 'Of course. Get him to address the nation and the armed forces… Of course… we get him to do a Juan Carlos on them, basically.'

'Exactly', Harry says, gripped by a flash of pain at the way he and Ruth somehow manage to understand each other so well, of regret of what it could have been like. He pushes his feelings aside. 'Tariq, you look…puzzled. What Ruth referred to was the coup which some high ranking officers in the Spanish Army attempted in 1981. The King, Juan Carlos I, phoned them up one by one during the night of the coup and got them to surrender or give up, then appeared on television the next day and addressed the Spanish people. It worked. Spain has been a stable democracy ever since. We might be able to get the King to do the same here but…'

John is dubious. 'You really think he can do this? I mean, this is someone who is more comfortable talking to turnips than to human beings here…'

'He won't have a choice', Harry says sombrely. 'He simply won't have a b.. y choice. Right. So we all know what we have to do. Let's get going. I'm afraid that it's going to be a long night, every night, until this is over. From tomorrow onwards, three of you go home at around 6 and get a long night's sleep. The other two stay here til late… Tariq, organise a rota, and pool cars to take the late-nighters home; arrange for fresh food to be delivered every evening. Tonight we all stay late; take-away diner on me. Now get going. John, Lucas? My office.'

**3.**

He beckons John and Lucas to his office and shuts the door behind them.

'Harry, this is crazy', John says, 'we can't do this other op now! Not when we are so understaffed here and…'

Harry shakes his head. 'Sorry. You' ll have to do it. I had a coded text from Bernard. More info.' He outlines what he has learnt. 'This gives you a week, starting tomorrow morning. I'm ordering Indian food for everyone on the Grid tonight. Phone in sick, both of you, with food poisoning tomorrow first thing, and don't show your faces around for a week. Clear? Good. Send Ros in, would you?'

He waits for her to arrive, tensely. 'Are you alright?', he asks softly, when she comes in. 'Impressive performance you've just put on here…it good to have you back.'

'I'm not quite together but…almost there', she replies, noticing the tiredness, the deeper lines of worry etched on his face. 'By the way, Harry…this rota business. You planned it for five people.'

Yes, and?'

'There are six of us.'

'I will stay late every night. I've got to be there. Won't make much of a difference to me anyway', he says in a matter of fact way. He rearranges some pens on his desks – stalling. 'Nightingale…it's very similar to the conspiracy your father was involved in and…'

'You mean, the conspiracy which my father _led_, and for which he is serving 20 years in jail.'

'Quite. Except that this time, it's on a global scale. It's not merely about finishing off democracy in the UK. It's about setting up authoritarian regimes in most of Western Europe.' He looks at her, directly, but not unkindly. 'It's likely that this will reawaken painful memories. I need to know that you can handle it.'

She smiles, wryly. 'I can handle it. Honestly. I wouldn't be here if I thought otherwise.'

He nods. 'Have you visited him recently?'

She looks away. 'No. Why?' She's wary. Pained too.

'I think that you should go. Ask him for information about possible members of Nightingale.'

'He's been in prison for three years! How would he…'

'He's bound to know who, three years ago, was in on it, and who is still at large. In the media. In the corporate world.' He hates what he is about to do. He pulls out a sheet of paper from his drawer and hands it to her. 'This is the list of prison visitors who have been to see him in the last year. As you will see…'

'So you knew I haven't seen him in a year. Why did you ask then?' she asks coldly, with a current of hot anger underneath.

'To see how you would react.' He lets that sink in. 'You might think that you have nothing to say to him. That he is dead to you….but that's a lie, Ros. You haven't cut him out of your life. Not completely. And for all you know….he might have changed.'

'Going by that list, he hasn't. Those people are all big on law and order. Not exactly friends of civil liberties.'

'But they are the only ones who visit him. It doesn't mean he still agrees with them. Will you give it a try? Please? Obviously, if he were to…cooperate with us, and if we do manage to stop this conspiracy….I might be able to get his sentence reduced.'

'God. How can you be so…'

'So ruthless? I have no choice. One another thing. Can you…can you keep an eye on the team for me? In the next few weeks I'll be out and about, reactivating some contacts, taking the temperature at Westminster….As you can't be out in the field yet, I need someone here to…'

'To act as your…deputy? You don't ask much, do you'.

'In a way, yes. As my deputy. I can think of no one better.' He doesn't add anything – and that's a mistake. For the normal, in-control Harry would have said 'but don't get any ideas from the Home Secretary about replacing me yet', as the kind of joke is also _not _a joke. But he doesn't say it. _Either he's got a lot on his mind, or he wants out once this is over and is grooming me to succeed him as head of section D_, she thinks. She hopes the former; she genuinely doesn't want his job, at least not for a long, long time. And she's worried about him – about his obvious fatigue, the poor care he is taking of himself these days…._Don't break Harry, _she begs him silently. _We all need you, more than ever_….

Somehow she manages to convey her feelings to him: he smiles at her, a small, sad smile, and dismisses her. As she walks out, she notices, from the corner of her eyes, that he is looking out onto the Grid – towards Ruth's desk. _Surprise, surprise_, she thinks. _God, those two…Almost worth staging a lock-down of the Grid_ _on one of those nights when they are the only ones left…I'll have to think about it…all in the interest of national security_, _of course…_

Two months later, the thought would come back to haunt her.


	8. Chapter 8

6

**Reckoning ch 8**

**1. **

She's seen the rota devised by Tariq. John and Lucas are down to stay on the Grid late tonight. Then it's Ros and Tariq. Then it's her turn, with John. She's noticed that Harry has obviously decided he will stay up every night. Two days before she finds herself almost alone with him….God knows she will need that. She's dreading it already. With all six of them, talking, sharing information, working together, it is not such an effort to avoid looking at him. But in the silent intimacy of the Grid late at night….

She shivers. It's as if she hasn't stopped shivering since fleeing Harry's hotel room in Paris. She's noticed the way Ros has looked at her, and at Harry sometimes, the last couple of days –speculating, wondering, guessing probably…_Did it show_, she wonders, _did it show on my face, when I came back, what had happened…they say it shows. That when someone has had that kind of…_whenever she catches herself going down that road, reminiscing about what they did, she drags herself away from what they became, fleetingly, together, back to the devastating row which preceded it, to her feelings of shame and self-disgust. She pushes away her memory of the desire on his face as he was bringing her to fulfillment, and instead forces herself, self-punishingly, to remember the look of pity in his eyes when she told him she could not have children. She tells herself, fiercely, not to think about his compassion and kindness, but to focus on his ruthlessness. _It's the only way I can do it, _she tells herself bleakly that morning. _It's the only way I can deal with the next two months and then walk away…._

The sound of her ringing phone distracts her. She picks it up.

From afar, unbeknownst to her, Harry watches her face darken and frown with worry. He watches her as she puts the phone down and half gets up, before sitting back down again to take another phone call. He still watches her, from the corner of his eyes, as she makes her way to his office. _This is it_, he thinks. _Now, I can only wait, and see. _

She knocks on his door. 'Yes?'

She enters, but stays on the threshold. 'Bad news, I'm afraid. John and Lucas are both down with food poisoning.'

He's so tired anyway, so tense, that he doesn't really need to make much of an effort to fake surprise and concern. 'Oh really? Damn….what?...'

'Probably the curry from last night', she shrugs.

He rubs his hand over his eyes, and makes himself sag in his chair. 'God. The last thing we need…both of them? How long do they…?'

'A week. At the most. Harry, how are we going to cope? I mean, with all the information we have to collect and…' She sounds frazzled and worried – and as yet to look at him properly.

'We'll cope.Tell Tariq to revise the quota, and to process the newbies from other sections asap.'

He bends his head towards his files, without really seeing them. Anything, anything at all to make himself not stare at her hungrily, to not look at her and remember that night…'Come on, we've both got lots of work to do', he says, and it comes out as a curt, snappish dismissal, so taut he is with the sheer effort of controlling his body's reaction to her presence.

She's gone now, and he lets his breath out in a long sigh. _Years of self-denial_, _without_ _too much difficulty really and now it's all I can think about_, he admonishes himself with disgust. _We've got a serious national emergency on for Christ's sake, I've sent John and Lucas onto a fool's errand, a b..dy dangerous one at that, lied to my team, and all I can think about is her. God. Get a grip, Pearce…._

**2. **

Four days later, she is processing and analysing the data they are beginning to get from the various bugs they have installed, whilst keeping an ear out for the 6pm news. It's 6pm – the BBC news are on. The Grid has gone quiet: Ros is still there but will leave soon. Tonight, as John and Lucas are still ill, she is on duty with Tariq. And Harry of course. It's the second evening this has happened: the first one went better than she thought, as Harry never left his office.

The muffled words of the news presenter jolt her out of her chair. 'We have just been told of a major explosion in Paris, which it looks happened half an hour ago in Paris. It's believed that… '

'No. Oh no….', she whispers, almost a moan really.

'Ruth?'. Ros calls out. But she can't tear her eyes away from the TV screen. She is vaguely aware of Harry materialising next to her, so close that she can sense the heat and feel the tension radiating from him. He is holding on to a desk chair, and his knuckles are white.

The TV presenter drones on….'Ten high school students are thought to have died, and the school itself has almost completely collapsed. The French authorities have not yet issued a statement. We don't know at this point whether the explosion was due to a gas leak, or whether it was a terroristic attack. Clearly, had the explosion happened earlier, during the school day, many more children would have died. Our correspondent will talk us through this latest drama at the end of….'

Harry switches the sound off. He can't bring himself to looking at Ruth. He hasn't heard from either John or Lucas in days, as per his instructions, but now he is going out of his mind with worry and fear for them – a worry which he can't share with anyone. Images of distraught parents appear on the screen – and suddenly, it's more than he can bear. Wordlessly, he goes back to his office and draws the blinds down. He doesn't want anyone, not even Ruth, certainly _not _Ruth, to see him like this, shaken, on the verge of tears.

The door opens. He doesn't look at whoever it is – all he knows, for he can always tell, is that it's not Ruth.

'Harry? Should we not discuss…?'

'We don't know enough to discuss it. Let's wait until we have more information. Anwyay, should you not be going home now?'

'Yes. In a minute.' Ros pauses. She's not sure that she really is on to something. But she is the head of the team after all, and she has the right to know what two of her agents are up to. Supposedly in bed with food poisoining. _Right, and I'm the Pope_…'This would have nothing to do with John's and Lucas' absence, would it?' she ventures. 'I mean, you _would_ tell me, wouldn't you, as your…deputy, if two of our agents…'

'What are you talking about?', he asks coldly.

'This explosion in Paris…'

'It is probably a bomb. That tallies with what the French told us. But why would it have anything to do with John and Lucas, who are stuck at home throwing their guts out?'

In moments like this, when he is closed off to the point of being impenetrable, she knows better than to push it. So she keeps her thoughts to herself and, with a curt nod, sets off towards her desk, when his voice stops her in her track. 'How is…how is Ruth coping?', he asks, obviously strained. She turns round to stare at him. 'She…' – he looks away – 'she didn't take it very well, when they told us that they could do nothing about the tip off they'd received. She got…' – he swallows, his mouth dry – 'she got quite upset. We had a rather… difficult conversation about it afterwards.'

It's the closest he's ever come to telling her what happened that night, and the pieces of the jiggsaw finally fall into place. Now it all makes sense to her, the unbearable tension between them, the undercurrent of pain and frustration, but also the way they watch each other without the other noticing, the way too that they always seem to sense where the other is, to be aware of their presence…_Bloody hell_. _Bloo. Dy. Hell. _

'She'll be fine', she replies gently. 'She's not fine now, but she will be. She'll get absorbed by some piece of obscure data and it'll help her cope with the pain. You know what she's like.' _Bad choice of words, Ros, bad choice of words…._

He visibly collects himself. 'Yes. Quite. Now. I have to go to Whitehall…will you tell her, and Tariq, that I'll be back in an hour? Thanks. Oh. And by the time I come back, I want you gone. Out. Away somewhere else. At home. At the Home Secretary's house..I don't care. But I don't want to see you tonight. I want to see you tomorrow morning, fresh, rested, and focused. Are we clear?'

She gives him a mock salute and leaves, with one last smile at him. _And you Harry, will you be fresh and rested tomorrow morning? Focused, yes. But rested? No. Of course not. _

**3. **

It's late, 11pm, and she knows that she should leave, but she can't drag herself away from the Grid. It's not simply that Harry is still here and that she is drawn to staying around him, however unwillingly. It's also that she is trying, desperately, to get more information about the explosion in Paris. It's now confirmed to have been a bomb, but no one as claimed responsibility for the attack yet. _She _feels responsible somehow for the death of those teenagers – irrational, she knows, but she can't shake the thought that she should have been able to convince Harry, and the French, to do something about it. She tortures herself with images of distraught parents, and at the same time fights the impulse of sharing her feelings of helplessness and outrage with Harry: he said absolutely nothing to her, or to anyone really, when the news came on, he just locked himself up in his office.

She can't bear the estrangement, the distance between them. She's about to give up and go home, but the door to the Grid opens. And through her misery, she can't help beaming at the newcomer. 'Lucas! What are you doing here?! You should stil be in bed resting…You look exhausted.'

'I'm feeling better…I thought I'd check in – what with those news…' Lucas shrugs. 'Harry here?'

'Yes. Yes of course…'

'I'll go in now then. Shouldn't _you_ be at home?', he asks gently.

'I'm off…and Lucas…it's good to have you back.'

**4. **

'So?'

'I managed to rejig the timer so that the bomb would explode outside school hours but…those kids were not supposed to be there, Harry. I'd been told they would all be out at 5:00….'

'I know', Harry sighs. 'Apparently those kids had decided to try and stay in the school overnight. As a joke…'

Both men fall silent, lost in their thoughts. 'John phoned me on a secure line before I got on the Eurostar.', Lucas says, with effort. 'He managed to locate to the second high school but not the bomb itself. So I guess the trigger was faulty. He's coming back on the ferry via Dover tomorrow, by the way.'

'Good. We need everyone here. And…well done Lucas. You…'

'Ten kids died, Harry, who shouldn't have..'

'Yes. And we should never forget that. But…however hard it is, try to remember that without you, many more would have died. Many more parents would be in hell right now. It doesn't make up for the ten who lost their lives. Nothing can. But…don't lose sight of what you did.'

'No…I can see why the French wouldn't touch it, you know…I managed to talk to a few contacts there. They have had five agents working deep undercover in radicalist networks for five years. They also think that surveillance ops are being carried out on most of your colleagues there at the highest level, by spooks cells within spooks cells. The slightest sign of a tip off about the precise location of the bombs and they would have lost years of intel. Not to mention their agents' lives.'

'I was afraid of that', Harry concedes. 'That's why I wanted you and John to do it: easier for you to get in and out without attracting attention. Let's hope that the terrorists will assume that both bombs malfunctioned.'

'What about the team? Do we tell them?'

'No. Absolutely not. Ros has almost guessed but the others are still in the dark. It's got to remain that way. If it ever became public that you've been fooling around a bomb on French soil, you'd get the sack. So would I, and anyone in the know. The fewer people in the know, the better.'

'OK. So. What do we do now?'

'As soon as John is back, we hold a meeting and analyse what we've got. We need to know how far Nightingale managed to get into the military and the police. That's our priority for the next week. After that….'

'After that?'

'After that, the King.'


	9. Chapter 9

10

**Reck 9**

**1.**

**A week later**

'Ruth? A word, please.'

She follows him mutely into his office. Throughout the past week, keeping a strictly professional demeanour around him has been easier than she thought it would be, even in the couple of evenings she has had to spend with him, and only one other member of the team, on the Grid: John and Lucas are fully recovered from their bout of food poisining, and the team is now working at full capacity – a well oiled, well functioning machine which is still largely groping in the dark, but is making progress on identifying potential members of Nightingale. Despite the intolerable pressure, of their sense that time is running out on them – the general elections are only 6 weeks away – they keep their calm. Ros is turning into a superb section chief; Harry, though he is often out at some meeting or other, is keeping a tight check on what they are doing, how their inquiries are unfolding, what other avenues they might profitably pursue. He has lost weight, and is obviously exhausted, as they all are, but he remains focused, collected, in control. Around her, he is unfailingly, and horribly blandly curteous – which makes it both easier, and harder, to work with him. So his request, of a word in private, surprises her.

She looks at him expectantly. Unusually for him these days, he seems ill at ease. 'Could you somehow get hold of the King's sister-in-law?', he asks without preamble.

'Err….well. We haven't seen in each in about ten years so…she wasn't married to the Queen's brother then.'

'Right. How close were you in College?'

'Quite close. Harry, what's going on?'

He drums his fingers on the polished surface of his desk. 'I need to talk to the King. Urgently. I need to work out with him what he could do if we can't foil Nightingale before election day. You heard Lucas' report this morning: we know that the army chiefs and about 30 per cent of all superior officers are clean. But we don't know about the King's military advisers. Or his private secretary for that matter. I've tried to think of a way to get to him without arousing suspicions but…'

'Have you actually talked to the army chiefs about this?'

'Yes. They agree with me. But they also agree that it'd be too risky if they asked for an audience outside the normal schedule. Likewise with the DG.'

'I see. So you want Lucy to act as an intermediary. What makes you think that she would do it? Or that she would keep her mouth shut? Or that she isn't part of the conspiracy?'

'You know her. Does she strike you as careless? As the type who would go around and blab her mouth about this? As the type to get involved in something like this?'

'It was ten years ago, Harry. At the time, no. But now…how should I know? Besides, we weren't that close.'

'But I thought you said that…'

'Not _that _kind of closeness. We hung out a lot but…' She looks away, acutely uncomfortable. 'It was one of those friendships…the gorgeous beautiful girl and the plain swot. So…'

'Ruth…'

'It's OK. You don't have to say it. It was a long time ago. So a phone call frome me, 'hi Lucy , it's Ruth, how about meeting up for coffee'? No. That wouldn't work. But….'

'What?'

'There's a College reunion next week. You know. One of those once-in-twenty years things. I wasn't going to go but…'

'Good. Excellent. You'll go. And I'll make sure she's there. The President of Corpus Christi owes me a favour.'

'Wait. Wait…'. . she slows him down. 'What favour? And how are you going to get her to be there?'

'A few years ago, his son got involved into a nasty pro-animal rights movement which was carrying out attacks on scientists at the university…I made a deal with him: avoid jail and inform on them for us. So. I'll give his father a ring and tell him that I'd really love to meet the Duchess of Westmoreland, that I'm impressed with her charity work – that kind of thing.'

She gaped at him. 'That _you_ would…?'

He clears his throat. 'Well. Yes. You'll take me as your partner. No, please, hear me out. I'm sorry to have to ask you to do this but…I'm sorry. Really. But…'

_No __way_, she thinks, _no way_. 'Wow. Hold on a sec. Why can't you ask ask Lucas or John to come with me? I mean…'

He clenches his teeth. 'Believe me, I don't want to do this anymore than you do', he replies tensely. 'But I've got to talk to her myself. Because if she doesn't want to play ball, I'll have to use some…leverage. And I really think it best if…'

'What _kind _of leverage?'

He hands out to her a thick file. '_That _kind. The kind that should not be bandied about unnecessarily. Even within the team.'

She goes through the file quickly. 'Harry. Come on. That was twentyyears ago…you can't use this to…to blackmail her into giving you access to the King! She's moved on! She isn't that kind of person anymore!'

'Ah. So you knew then. At the time. What she got into….' He wants to ask her whether she, too, got involved in…he pushes the thought aside. 'Anyway, how do you know that she's changed, since you're not that close and haven't seen her in a decade?', he shoots back.

She's got nothing to answer to that. 'It's…it's just _wrong_', she says lamely.

'Well. If you wanted to live your life by absolute moral standards, you shouldn't have joined the Service!', he snaps, instantly regretting his words. She takes a few step back away from him, looking like a wounded animal. He sits down heavily. 'Look. I'm sorry. I will only use this if she proves…difficult. I promise. But right now…right now the King is all we've got. And I can't think of any other way to get to him. If you have a better idea,we'll go with it. If not….you'd better send out your reply to the College. Besides….I've got something she desperately wants. I can give it to her.'

'Fine. Fine', she replies through gritted teeth, not even bothering to ask what he can possibly have that her former friend would want. 'But we are _not _ doing the full thing, the 'overnight stay in College and going to the party breakfast in the morning.' We're _not _pushing this…this grotesque charade to…to…'

He stares at her. 'Oh. Don't worry. We're not staying overnight. The driver will bring us back to London after diner. You'll use your real name of course, that's how she knows you. But I'll use a different one. We'll both be civil servants for…whatever. Tariq will put some legends together.'

'Legends. Yes. Of course. Great. Is there anything else?'

He looks at her for a long, long time, the taut and angry silence stretching between them. 'No. Nothing else.'

She leaves.

He swivels round in his chair so that his team cannot see his face through the glass panel. His shoulders sag. If he'd ever needed a sense of how she truly feels about him, she's just given it to him. Pretty unambiguously.

**2.**

He is wearing black tie, which she has to admit suits him. She's wearing a beautiful evening gown which sets off her eyes, and which she bought at Harrod's on an impulse. Her hair is tied up in a lovely bun. She's wearing a hint of make up. She looks..not beautiful, she knows she isn't beautiful, unlike Lucy, but – reasonably OK, she thinks, as she settles on the back seat of the car, next to Harry, for the long drive to Oxford.

It's warm in the car, the driver has put some soft music on, neither she nor Harry is inclined to talk. He absorbs himself in some files. She picks up her book – a history of the Peloponesian wars – but soon lets it slip through her fingers, lulled by the smooth rythm of the car…..

She's fallen asleep. He glances at her face in repose through the corner of his eyes…he knows he should be careful in front of the driver, but the temptation is too strong. He turns round towards her, fully, his files forgotten – not that he was doing a good job at focusing on them anyway. _She's so beautiful_…._at peace. Relaxed for once….if only we could go to this party for real, together….if only we could…._he catches himself looking at her body, the swell of her chest underneath her evening gown, the curve of her neck…

He turns back to his own window, angry with himself. Somehow, he manages to get back to work. Somehow, when she wakes up at the car makes its way through Oxford, down the streets he remembers so well from his own time there as a student, he succeeds at switching back to boss-employee mode.

The pre-dinner drinks, the dinner, where they across each other, go like a blur. The Duchess of Westmoreland is here, alone, and doesn't seem interested in being the Royal Guest. She is vivacious, witty, and someone not in the know would have no sense at all that she is married to one of the most inflential men in the country. She's recognised Ruth, of course, and greeted him warmly as Ruth's partner. Promises to talk later, after diner, to catch properly when they are back in London…promises which are meant at the time but will be forgotten when everyone gets back to their busy lives….

Yet, underneath the charm and laughter, he senses in that woman a deep current of unhappiness. It saddens him, but he can't help thinking that this will make things easier later tonight. He is also discovering a side to Ruth which he didn't know existed. In this magnificent dining hall, the light og dozen of candles playing softly on her skin, she seems entirely at home, chatting with her former co-students about the good old days, drawing him into the conversation, reminiscing about missed tutorials (not _hers_), scrambled essays (not _hers _either), punting on the Isis on a glorious, carefree June evening, attending brilliant lectures… . _She should have stayed here_, he thinks, _she should have been a scholar_, _eating diner at high table with other scholars_. _She shouldn't have to deal with all that is sordid about our world…God how patronising that is of you, Pearce, _he admonishes himself….

Her eyes meet his across the table as they rise after diner, then move away. As they file out of the dining hall for a post-diner drink, she contrives to walk right next to him. 'She's staying here tonight', she whispers to him. 'She's invited me to her guestroom for a nightcap at 10pm.'

'Well done. It'll make it easier to get past the duty officer.'

She nods, knowing that what they are about to do is wrong, knowing too that Harry is right – that they don't have much of a choice.

**3. **

'Come in, come in!' Lucy Westmoreland ushers them in, and dismisses her bodyguard. Now that she is not in the middle of a crowd, that she no longer has to pretend and perform, the fine lines on her face are more visible, the sadness in her eyes more obvious.

She pours them some drinks. 'So, James…and please, none of this 'your ladyship nonsense', call me Lucy. So, tell me, how did you manage to snatch Ruth? She was incredibly popular with….'

'Lucy.'

'…with the really clever boys, you know….'

'Lucy!'

Lucy looks at her, surprised at the sharpness in Ruth's voice. 'My gosh. You two look incredibly serious.'

'Lucy. James is not my partner. We are both senior officers with MI5. And we really need to talk to you tonight. That's why we are here tonight.'

The other woman has gone pale. 'What?!'

'You'd better sit down', Ruth tells her gently. And then she looks at Harry: you wanted this, her eyes tell him, well, you do it. _You _stick the knife in.

He sits down across Lucy. 'What I am about to tell you is top secret. I need to talk to the King, urgently, on a matter of national security. A few months ago, you will remember, a bomb exploded in a hotel in London. It nearly killed the Home Secretary- and one of my agents. We believe…we have reliable information that the group behind the attack is planning to disrupt the general elections in order to seize power. They are ruthless, and determined to curtail more or less all our civil and political freedoms. We also believe that they have managed to get to a number of senior officers and rank and file soldiers. If they succeed on election days…our only hope is the King. So. I need to talk to him, but can't trust his private secretary, or his military aides. Will you help?'

She looks at him speculatively. 'You're taking quite a risk, telling me all this. What if I am a member of the conspiracy myself? What if I refuse to help you?'

'Ruth tells me I can trust you. That….that counts for a lot. But I do have an insurance policy.'

'Oh really?', she asks coolly.

Wordlessly, he hands over to her a copy of the file which so outraged Ruth. She peruses it. 'My God. You would use _this_?'

'Yes. Let me be absolutely clear. If you refuse to help us, or if I get the slightest sense that you have talked to _anyone_ other than the King himself, I will have those photos sent to all the major tabloids. They will have a field day. The King's sister-in-law, the Duchess of Westmoreland, whose charity work and moral credentials are so impressive, will be revealed to all as a former member of a select group of students whose sole purpose was to organise and take part in sordid orgies of drugs and group sex. This photo of you dressed up as a Nazi female guard whipping a naked boy will go down really well with the British public, I should think….'

She's gone very pale. 'You b…d. Ruth, please, tell me that… you knew what….at the time…'

'I'm sorry, Lucy. I knew that you were…a bit wild. But this? No way.' She can't quite hide the disgust in her voice. And yet she does remember the best days of their friendships, the snipets of information which Lucy had let slip, about her abusive father, her alcoholic of a mother….She looks at Harry, pleadingly.

'Lucy', Harry begins. And this time, his voice is gentle, his eyes are soft, and it clearly is not a front. 'Lucy. If you help us, then I can give you what you desperately want.'

'How could you possibly know what I desperately want?', Lucy asks bitterly.

'Here is what I know. What only a handful of people in the country know. In fact, I don't think that Ruth herself knows, and believe me, what she doesn't know is usually not worth knowing. But this…' Now he has her attention. 'The Queen's brother, your husband, beats you up on a regular basis. Behind closed doors. He always makes sure to beat you where the bruises will not be visible. He beats you when he comes back from his club after losing a game of poker or when he's had too much to drink. He beats you when he feels slighted by his sister. He beats you in the morning if your children have woken him up during the night. He beats you in the evening if you refuse to have sex with him. In fact, I should imagine he enjoys hearing you say no and beg him to stop…'

'_Please_…please. Stop. I can't…how do you know?', she whispers, brokenly, humiliated beyond descriptipn.

He clasps her hands in his, hoping to communicate some of his strength and warmth to her.. 'It doesn't matter how I know. So far, you've managed to protect your children. So far, he has had enough self-restraint, if you can call it that, not to beat you in front of them. How long before his last vestige of self-control goes? How long before he kills you in one of his drunken rages? How long, Lucy?' He lets that sink in. 'Two years ago, you told him you wanted a divorce. He threatened you with this file. Somehow he'd got a copy of it. He told you that if you asked for a divorce, he would make absolutely sure that you would never, ever, get custody of the children. And after all, he is royalty, or as close to it as you can be, and you're just a commoner with a dogdy past.'

Her eyes are glistening with tears. 'How can you help me?', she asks, all the fight having gone out of her. Ruth comes and sits next to her on the sofa, appalled by what she has just heard. She had heard rumours, but this…'If you help us', she says softly, having figured out what Harry has in mind, 'once this is over, we will help you get this divorce. We will find and destroy every single copy of this file..' She looks at Harry questioningly. He nods. 'We'll get evidence, Lucy. We can install some cameras in your appartment, and the next time he hits you, we'll have it recorded. We can track down former members of the royal household who have been paid off on condition that they not say anything.'

'We also have a file on him, of course', Harry says. 'There are rumours of him beating up some prostitutes….we can track them down. And we will. Lucy. We can destroy him. I will make a point of talking to him myself. Of telling him that unless he grants you a divorce on _your _terms, all of this goes into the public domain. I will also make absolutely sure that both the King and the Queen are fully aware of what I intend to do. They'll make him see sense, believe me… That's the prize you get for doing this one thing I am asking you to do: get the King to agree to see me, alone, at Windsor, four days from now. Tell him that the Home Secretary will be there too. And don't breathe a word to anyone else. Not to the Queen. Not to the PM. Not to your most trusted friend. Not even to your dog. To no one. For doing this one, simple thing, you get back your freedom. Your dignity. Your life. Your children.'

She's started crying, her body racked with painful sobs. Ruth draws her into her arms and rubs her back, gently, murmuring soft words of comfort. After a while, Lucy pulls away. 'I'll do it', she says simply. 'Give me a secure number when I can reach you. And…James, or whatever you realname is. You knew I would play ball anyway. That just the threat of exposure would do the trick. So why _help_ me?'

'Because you were Ruth's friend. Because no one should have to go through what you are going through.' He pauses. 'And because I _cannot _abide abusers.' Ruth looks at him sharply: something in his voice…but now is not the time. She gives one last hug to Lucy, and writes down her mobile number on a piece of paper. 'Call me', she says urgently. 'Promise me. Promise me that if he…'. Lucy nods, and without further ado, they leave, as silently and quietly as when they came in.

**4. **

'How did you find out? I mean…I'd heard some rumours but….', she asks him once they are settled in the car. They have closed the partition between them and the driver so that they can talk freely.

'I was tipped off three years ago by a Palace informant. I had Malcolm and Zaf put some bugs in….anything that close to the sovereign….we needed to know.'

'Who else does?'

'In the service? No one, as far as I can tell.'

She mulls it over, shaken by what she has learnt tonight. '_Why_ did you offer to help her?'

He remains silent, unwilling tell her what no one else knows. But perhaps because it is dark, and because he knows she cannot see the pain and sadness in his eyes, he finds the courage to do it. 'My father was a wife-beater', he says simply. 'I've lost track of the number of times he put my mother in hospital. Of course, in those days, there wasn't much one could do.'

'Oh, Harry…'.

'I called the police once', he says tonelessly. 'I must have been about 12. They came round to have a chat with him. As soon as they left, he….' He stops, unable to tell her what happened then. Which she can guess anyway. 'I came down to Oxford to study. I knew it was still going on. I begged her to leave him. She wouldn't. She didn't have a job, an income of her own…and in her own way, she loved him. I told her I would rather drop out of college and go back home to live with her.' He swallows. 'She pleaded with me not to do that. She wanted to have succeeded at at least one thing in her life, she said, and that was to have me have a full, happy, independent life. So I obeyed. I told myself that I was doing it for her… Selfish b…d that I was'. He lets his head rest on the backseat, exhausted, tears prickling his eyes. 'The day before I was due to go to Sandhurst, I went home. I could tell he'd knocked her around again. That evening….at diner, he started criticising her again. The meat was not cooked properly enough, the vegs were soggy…he raised his hand at her. And suddenly…I couldn't take it anymore.'

'What did you do?', she asks softly in the long silence.

'I slammed him against the wall and told him that if he ever did this again, if I had the slightest inkling that he had beaten her up one more time, I would kill him. And I would have, Ruth…believe me. I would have….A month later, my mother rang me to say that he h'd had a bad fall on the way back from the pub. He'd hit his head. He never regained consciousness.'

She reaches out to him, instinctively, but his arm is so rigid with tension, so unresponsive to her touch, that she lets her hand fall. But he gets hold of it, in a light, featherly touch to express his gratitude and thanks – then moves away slightly. 'Thanks for listening', he murmurs, almost inaudibly. 'And for coming tonight. I know how hard it was for you to do this.'

She could shrug. She could dismiss the whole thing as a job well done. But his honesty calls for similar honesty in her. 'It _was _hard. More than I thought. Being back here…all the memories. Manipulating Lucy. _Using _her. However worthy the end…But…you're right. There was no other option really. So…I'm glad I came.'

Neither of them says anything else for the rest of the drive.


	10. Chapter 10

8

**Ch 10**

**A bit more angst. Well, a lot in fact. But there will be light at the end of the tunnel, I promise…I just enjoy writing angst! **** Thanks for all your reviews….they make it all worthwhile.**

**1. Four days later. The Grid. Meeting Room.**

From: Ruth Evershed

To: section D Team.

Note: ultra confidential. For your eyes only. This email will be destroyed automatically 10mns after reception, and will be resent only once if not read.

morning, HP and AL met with K. K guaranteed that:

- he would address the nation at 8:30pm in full military regalia on election day in case of electoral breakdown (assessment of the situation to be made at 8pm on the day by HP, AL, and all four military chiefs)

- he would appoint as PM the leader of the party with the highest number of seats as predicted by the BBC forecast at 8pm on election night

- he would dissolve Parliament as elected on that day six weeks later, and call for another general election

- he would call for calm, peace, and order, and insist on the restoration of full democracy.

Speech to be vetted by MI5's DG and army chiefs.

2. Surveillance of leaders, deputy-leaders, cabinet members (incl shadow cabinet) of all major parties indicate that they are all clean, except: shadow home secretary, Secretaries of State for Scotland, NI, Wales; Admiral Johnston (North Atlantic Fleet), General Debrett (Quarter-Master general for the army), Air Commander Newman (RAF, southern quarter.) We must assume that 20% of officers under direct orders from those superior officers are Nightingale members.) Police: area commanders (incl London) clean but reports of very strong dissatisfaction within rank and file. Assume a 20% rate of readiness to support Nightingale.

3. Islamist cells: undercover work carried out by deep moles and supervised by LN, JD, and RM. Report of surge of activities, far beyond usual financial means. Reports of contacts and meetings between cell members and ultra-secret operatives from MI5 and MI6. Suspected support from hardliners within French, American,and Russian secret services.

points:

now and a week before election day: - continue surveillance and undercover work.

- have the service rent all empty flats and houses within 2 miles radius of aforementioned party members' homes and constituency offices, and of the offices for the electoral commission.

b. A week before election day: implant LN, JD, and RM as undercover agents working in headquarters of all three main parties.

5.Observation: section D in desperate need of a second IT specialist.

Destroy this email as soon as you have read it.

**2.**

**Ten days later.**

The sound of the phone wakes him up abruptly, from a nightmare in which he finds himself running to stop a bomb, Ruth screaming, the King murdered, Nightingale triumphant…

He picks up the phone, bathed in cold sweat, glancing at the clock. 2am…it can't be good.

'Dad?'

He is so astounded to hear the sound of this voice that he is almost convinced that he is still dreaming. But the voice is real, urgent, panicked. '_Graham??_'

'Dad' – half sobbing – 'Dad…I'm in trouble.'

Ten years….'Where are you?' he asks simply. 'Docklands. OK. Give me the address…Stay where you are. I'm on my way.'

During the drive, he makes a conscious effort not to speculate, not to let the old anger and resentment build up to the irritation which his son, somehow, has so often managed to arouse in him. He makes himself remember the beautiful baby whose birth was the most meaningful event, together with his daughter's, of his life; whose cheeky smile and bright eyes were the hightlight of his days after yet another horrid, sordid operation; whose sheer intelligence delighted him….

He pulls up in front of the warehouse where his son is. As as Graham walks over to him, unshaven, in soiled clothes, bloodshot, he tries, desperately, to remember that boy. 'I didn't do it, Dad…' His son, a man aged 27, is crying now. 'I swear I didn't do it.'

Harry looks down on the ground, where a young woman, naked, bruises covering her body, is lying, a gun next to her. 'I didn't kill her, Dad, I swear I didn't. I…I don't even know who she is.' Graham is shaking so violently that he can barely speak. 'I didn't do it, Dad…'

Harry looks at him, and a profound wave of calm washes over him. 'I know', he says simply. 'Come with me. Now.'

'What? We can't just leave her here without…we've got to….'

Harry puts his hands on his son's shoulders, noticing how thin, how bony he is. 'We can. Trust me on this. Come.' In the car, trying not to notice the smell of sweat and unwashed skin which emanates from his son, he pulls his secure phone out. 'Ros? Red flash the whole team. Safe house G, in half an hour. I also need you to send a team of cleaners to the Docklands. India Qay, 3rd warehouse on the right…There's a woman's body there. I need the body sent to the mortuary where we have an asset. Yes, the one on Gray Inn's road. Ask the cleaners to torch the warehouse down. Make it look like an accidental fire. What is he saying? Put him on. Home Secretary? Sorry to wake you up. No, I don't need you there. Ros will brief you…I need a favour though. Can you get our ambassador in Tel Aviv to get hold of my daughter and put her on the first available commercial flight back to London? On the quiet of course. I can't do it now myself and…Yes. He's clean. We've checked him out. I'll have someone pick her up at Heathrow…thanks. Speak to you later.' He clicks the phone shut, and gets the car going.

'Dad….why do you want Kate to…'

'Graham. Tell me _exactly_ what happened tonight. _Exactly._'

**3.**

'They've set him up', he tells his assembled team, his face contorted with cold rage. 'They had someone follow him to this rave party, spike his drink, hers too with the date rape drug…then they took them both to the warehouse, put a bullet into her head, and made it look as if he had killed her. I'm sure that if an evidence tech did the test, he'd find gun residue under Graham's fingernails. Had Graham not puked his drink out he'd probably wake up now, to the sounds of police cars.' He clenches his fists. 'B…ds', he grinds out, 'the utter, evil b…ds…'

'But why would they do that?' Tariq frowns.

'To get to Harry', Ros shrugs. 'With his son charged with murder, I'd say he'd be more or less neutralised.'

'It's one thing to get to me', Harry snaps. 'But to use him….' He tries to control his breathing. 'That's it. The gloves are off. This time, I will _not _make a plea for leniency for these guys when we get them. I will _not _instruct forces to hold fire….they go down for thirty years for conspiracy, or they die, I don't care which, but they do _not_ get away with this.'

Lucas rubs his face. It's 3:30am and the fatigue begins to take its toll. 'OK. What do we do now? Obviously Graham can't move in with any of us. Too risky. We need to find him a place, and figure out how to communicate with him.'

'I need to rejig all our secure phones', Tariq announce decisively. 'I also need to get one for Graham. I;ve got this new interface system…' He begins to launch into a technical explanation, and Harry, who hasn't heard back from the HS about his daughter, is about to lay it into him, but Graham beats him to it. He hasn't eaten in 48 hours; his life has gone from pretty rough to nightmarish, but this is computers, this is solid, read, facts, and he clings to it. Besides, he's had it with his father and the other spooks talking about him as if he weren't not in the room. ''What if you reswitched the encryption, and rerouted…'

They all turn round to him, as if he were a ghost. He shrugs. 'I've got a degree in computer science, Dad. Didn't you know?'

'Of course I knew! What do you take me for!?' Harry breathes in and out, slowly. 'Not that I found out from you', he grinds out.

'I could do with the help', Tariq ventures diffidently. 'What if he came to work with me?'

'On the Grid?! Oh don't be ridiculous', Harry snaps.

'No way I'm working with the secret services', Graham protests, at the same time.

'Tariq is right, Harry'. Ruth hasn't said a word so far. She's been watching Graham, trying to discern what he has of his father under the grime, the bravado, and the slightly petulant expression on his face. The shape of his mouth perhaps, the brown eyes, but otherwise, she can't see Harry in him. What she can see, sense, is the crackling tension between father and son, the worry in Harry's eyes, close to panic in fact, and Graham's obliviousness to his father's fear for him.

'This is an insane idea', Harry replies angrily. 'I mean, what are you thinking! He's got to go deep in protection! It's the only way to keep him safe!'

'The only way to keep him safe is to put him in the last place where they would think of looking for him', Rith shoots back. 'And the last place where they would look for him is the Grid. Besides, Tariq needs help.'

Harry closes his eyes. Insane, but workable…precisely because it is insane…His phone rings. 'Katharine? Where are you? Where…No. No. You have _got _to come back…because I can't have you protected properly in Tel Aviv! They almost got to your brother and….' He is beginning to pace, angrily, up and down the drab living room of the safe house. 'No, Katharine! I'm _not _trying to control you, I'm _not _trying to tell you that your life is a mess, I'm trying to keep you _alive_!!', he yells, losing his temper.

Ros stares at Graham coldly. 'Talk to your sister and make her see sense. Now.'

'I am _not _working for you guys. For my dad. No way….B…y MI5 f…d up my childhood and I won't…'

'You arrogant, childish little s…t', she replies coldly. 'Why did you call daddy tonight then? Couldn't get yourself out of your pickle on your own, could you? Oh, and for your information. B…y MI5 are removing all the evidence which was planted there, accusing you of murder. Agents of b…y MI5, including yours truly, had to get up in the middle of the night to try and work out a way to keep you safe. So get off your high horse and grow up. This isn't the time for some pathetic little Oedipal war. This is real war, in case you hadn't noticed. So go and help your father get your sister safe. Got it?'

He glares at her, angrily, and then almost snatches the phone from Harry's shaky hands. 'Kate. It's me. Dad is right. You've got to come home…I promise you…they tried to frame me for murder, Kate. Don't you see?! Yes. Yes. OK. Good. 10am at Heathrow. I'll be there. Bye'. He hands the phone back to Harry.

'Thanks', Harry whispers. 'Thank God you managed to talk her into this. Thanks…' – his voice almost breaks. 'We can go and get her together and…'

'I hate to spoil your plans for a lovely family reunion', John points out, 'but neither you nor Graham should get near Heathrow. Too risky. You're not fit to drive anyway. I'll go myself. She can stay at mine for a couple of days until we figure something out.'

'And I can work out a legend for Graham', Tariq says. 'Graham, you OK to stay at mine for a day or? Cool. God you need a bath. Harry, can Graham start on the Grid tomorrow?'

'Guys, look, thanks for doing all this but I'll be fine, I don't need a job and…'

Harry bangs his fist down the table. 'For once, you will do as I'm telling you!', he half-shouts, his anger taking the better of him again. 'I've had it with you! As long as Nightingale is on, you're living off the street, earning a proper living, staying off canabis, and repaying the huge favour which these guys have just done you by helping them! Don't think of it as doing something for _me_ if you can't stomach that thought but at least do it for them! Understood? Good.' He takes a deep breath. 'You're 27. Once this is over, do whatever the hell you want. I can't keep fighting you, fighting _for _you, for ever. But for now, you keep your head down and behave like a grown-up! Are we we clear? Good. Tariq, take him to yours and report back at the Grid tomorrow – sorry, later this afternoon at , please, ring me as soon as you have Kate…. And…everyone. Thanks. Really. I…' He tries to dislodge the lunp in this throat. 'I don't know what I would do without you…Ros? A word.'

They all file out, slowly except Ros. 'Do you think that this can work?', he asks her anxiously. 'Him working with Tariq.'

Ros shrugs. 'If it keeps him out of trouble and gives us the help we need…we'll have to get him to sign the Official Secrets Act though.'

'Yes. Do that when he gets to the Grid with Tariq later today…Ros…I'm sorry I had to call you…I know you don't get that much time alone with the Home Secretary and...'

'For God's sake Harry. I've been going out with him for almost six months. We practically live together. You speak to him twice a day…can't you at least call refer to him as Andrew when you'ree alone with me?' she retorts, half jokingly, half irritated.

'No, I most definitely can't', he replies, in exactly the same way, as they make their way downstairs. 'Ruth! You're still here. Are you OK?' he asks, concerned. He hasn't had the time tonight to say hello to her, to ask her how she is, to apologise for dragging her out of bed in the middle of the night. In fact, since their trip to Oxford, they haven't really had time alone together. He misses her company, her infectious smiles, the little private chats they would have, throughout the day. He's glad of those few minutes with her, in the early hours of the morning, after an exhausting night

She smiles at him, briefly. 'I just wanted to make sure that you were…alright', she says simply.

His heart lifts. 'Yes. Considering…I'll be happier when I know that Katharine is safe and sound. But…'

'I'm glad Graham called you, you know.'

'Yes. Well. He didn't have much of a choice. And we have a very long way to go, he and I…', he sighs as he locks the door to the safe house.

'You'll get there.'

He shakes his head, and suddenly, his face looks pained, lined, bleak. 'I hope so…because you see, if that woman hadn't been killed in such a professional way….I wouldn't have known whether to believe him or not. That's how estranged we are, Ruth…so estranged that I can't even tell whether my own son is capable of murder.'

There is nothing she can say to that. As he once so harshly pointed out to her, she doesn't have children, and can't possibly understand his anguish. At the same time, she loved a child as her own once, she still does love him in fact, and misses him more than she's ever cared to confess, and came very close to seeing him killed. And _that _she obviously cannot remind him of – too many raw, gaping wounds for them to deal with. All she can do is put her hand on his arm, so lightly that he can barely feel it, and make her way to her car.

'Ruth?'

'Yes?'

'Will you be OK to drive home? We can't leave any of our cars here but…'

'I'll be fine.'

'I'll drive behind you all the way. To make sure that…'

'Harry. Go home. You've had a tough night. I'll be fine.'

She speeds off, leaving him standing there, in the nascent light of dawn, alone with his pain.


	11. Chapter 11

**Ch 11**

**Sorry for not posting earlier…This story is longer than I thought…the pace should pick up soon…I hope that's OK.**

**HRFan**

**Election ****day – minus 4 weeks**

**1.**

They have abandonned all thoughts of rota: four weeks before election day, we can't afford to take any time off, Harry muses as he looks around his team, assembled around the meeting room table. The strain is showing on all faces: pale skins, dark circle under the eyes, weight loss…

'Right', he begins decisely. 'Ros. Your turn for an update.'

'OK. We have secured all properties surrounding homes, constituency offices, electoral commission….you name it. No one will be able to use these as bases or trigger points for bomb explosions. We will also have in place clean police snipers and army troops around all sensitive areas. All three party leaders have been warned. All are willing to cooperate by not discussing the situation with anyone except the list of safe people we have given them. The Royal family will move to Edinburgh the day before the election – official engagements in Scotland for all senior royals have been set up as decoy to justify the move. The King will stay in London, with a BBC team on site at Buckingham Palace on standby for filming if necessary.'

'Katharine?', Harry asks. 'I've been out at meetings all day long and haven't spoken to her today yet…'

'She's been planted with the team. The filming team doesn't know yet; only the director general and the political editor. They're clean too. Frankly, with her experience in documentary filming, getting her the job was a piece of cake.'

'Good. Good. What about…' He trails off, unsure of how to phrase it.

'I paid my father a visit this morning', Ros pre-empts him in a toneless, flat voice. 'He is willing to cooperate but only if you try to have his sentence reduced.' She swallows – the very first chink in her armour since their meeting began. 'I accepted on yours and Andrew's behalf. He gave me interesting information which I passed on to Graham two hours ago. Graham?'

The young man - clean, fed, properly clothed, shaven, short hair – clears his throat. It's his first full team meeting since he joined the Grid the week before. He wouldn't admit it to anyone, but he's intimidated, partly because he is scared of making a fool of himself, partly because his father is looking at him, impassively, exactly as he stares at the others when they report back. He clears his throat, looking at everyone in turns except Harry. 'Right. Well. Ros's father only has five regular visitors. All senior executives in major corporations.' He reels off names, positions, gaining in assurance as he goes along. 'This is where it gets interesting. According to Ros' dad, those guys' chief execs are involved in something big. He said something cryptic about money transfers flowing from those corporations to some semi-senior political figures in all three parties. So I did some digging.'

'Digging?', Harry asks, coldy.

Graham starts fidgeting. 'Well. You know…I went into their systems. Some of their banks too.'

'Are you telling me that you hacked into the mainframes, or whatever you call them, of all three major parties, all five most important corporations in the country, and their banks?'

The younger man tenses up. He isn't used to seeing his father in work-mode, in fact, he isn't used to seeing his father at all, and mistakes his cold and brutal assessment of fact for anger and irritation. 'Yes. Well. How else could I…'

His tone is defiant, almost belligerent, a mask for the uncertainty and diffidence of a little boy scared by a father whose love and respect he desperately wants, but Harry only hears the tone and doesn't see the mask. His mouth tightens. 'Look', he begins.

'It's OK, Graham', Ruth interjects quickly. 'I once hacked into the French Secret Services' server. Outwardly your…Harry was annoyed. Inwardly…he loved it. Didn't you, Harry?', she addresses him, pleading with him with her eyes to go easy on the boy.

His face softens. 'I'm impressed', he tells his son, truthfully. 'Seriously. What did you find?'

'Transfers. Lots of them. Routed and rerouted via Jersey, the Caymans Island, the Bahamas…you name it. From those corporations to political parties.'

'Illegal transactions?'

Graham stares at him. How would he know? He's been living in squats on and off for years – though that didn't prevent him from acquiring a vast range of computer skills, thanks to public libraries and internet cafés, but _the law on party donations_? It is in those moments that Harry realises how much his son has to learn…he rubs his eyes, tiredly. 'Right. Well. We can assume that this isn't above board. Ruth, can you…?'

'Yes. I'll check. And if those transactions _are _illegal…'

'That's how we get them', Lucas says. 'We tip off the Fraud Squad. Bang go a few Nightingale members.'

'Good. Ruth, Graham, you work that angle. Lucas?'

'We're still not getting anywhere with the suspected terrorist cells. Harry, this worries me. They've all gone quiet. Too quiet. I mean…three weeks ago, we were definitely getting snatches of info, about projected coups in the two weeks leading to the election, but now…nothing. Zilch. Nada. It doesn't make sense.'

'That's right', Tariq confirms. 'Nothing on any of the bugs, or the phones we managed to tap into…but they're also using new phones…with a seriously tough encryption software. Can't crack it yet…'

'So they're planning something, but softly softly…' Harry muses. 'But why would they go all quiet suddenly?'

'Because they've completed all their preparations', John speculates, 'or because they've cottoned on that we are on to them.'

Harry's face is set in worry. 'If that's the case….look, we need to know what their big projected London target is. Or at least to narrow down the range of possibilities. We've covered Westminster, Whitehall, Buckingham, the Bank of England, the BBC, major financial institutions, all foreign embassies…the Met…'

'Have we covered Thames House?', Ruth asks.

Harry stares at her. 'My God. You're right. We didn't even think…' He gets up and starts pacing, furiously angry with himself. 'How could I not _think_…'

'Right. This is what we do', Ros interjects. 'We don't breathe a word of this to anyone. Lucas, John and I will continue with our undercover work with all three terrorist cells which we think are planning something on the day.'

'But..isn't that terribly dangerous?' Graham asks. The look she throws at him makes him feel like a fool. 'Yes. It is', she concedes calmly. 'That's what we do here. Meanwhile, you, Tariq and Ruth go through the files of all Thames House personnel who started in the last…let's say, six months. You leave no stone unturned. You check everything. Previous employment history, references, where they live, where they studied, parents' history, everything.'

'Does that include me?', Tariq asks, half jokingly. 'I started six months ago. So did Ruth in fact.'

Harry walks straight over to him and leans over his shoulder. 'Yes. It does include you. In fact, I will check you over myself.' Tariq pales, Graham tenses. 'Of course it doesn't include you, you idiot. Have you taken leave of your senses?' Harry goes on, shaking his head.

'Oh, good', Tariq sighs with relief. 'You had me worried there. I'm so glad you trust me, I mean…'

'That's because I checked you over myself thoroughly last month', Harry replies coolly. 'Believe me, if I had found the slightest hint of something dodgy, you wouldn't be here being a smart a..s'.

'Oh. I see.'

'I' m sure you do. Now let's get back to work everyone. See you back here at 4pm. Two things. One, we have to assume that whatever they are planning in London will happen anytime from a week before the elections to election day itself. We also have to work on the assumption that they are planning two major disruptions. One to create chaos and panic, probably a few days before the day itself, and one on election night. Two….I want everyone on deck or undercover, from 7am to 10pm, every day, until the elections are over. On the day itself, we'll take an hour each out of the office to go and vote, on a rota basis.'

'Excuse me?', John asks.

'Well, I assume that you will want to vote, no? I mean, this is about saving democracy in this country so I should bloody well hope that you will actually bother to cast a vote. Even if you spoil your ballot paper in protest.'

**2****. **

'Is he always like this?' Graham asks Ruth. His desk is next to hers, and whereas he finds Ros both scary and exciting, he feels drawn to Ruth, to her calm demeanour, her endearing excentricities: she is the only one who drinks tea from a cup with saucer, instead of a mug; she kicks her shoes off when she is absorbed in something; she fidgets a lot…he likes that in her. And it helps too that she always has a kind word for him, that she never seems to judge him, the way his father does.

'Like what?', she pretends not to understand.

'Well. Brutal. Tough.'

She smiles at him. There's a hint of sadness in her eyes. He's noticed it. He's good at spotting those things: leaving in squats, on the street sometimes, does that to you. It sharpens your senses, your awareness of people's moods and quirks. And so he's also noticed the tension between her and his dad – a tension which doesn't seem to be there with the others. Whereas Lucas, John, Ros, will go into his father's office without knocking, she always knocks. Whereas the others sit haphazardly, sometimes next to his father, sometimes not, she always takes the seat that's the furthest away from him – or, if she is in the room before his father, the latter always makes a point of not sitting next to her. Yet, they do not hate each other, clearly…yet there is something going on there, something difficult, and dark, and painful. and he doesn't quite know what it is, and obviously can't ask either of them. So he files it away, and keeps working, pushed by the desire to prove himself, in his father's eyes, but as importantly, in his own eyes as well…besides, he loves the stuff. The digging. The ferretting of illegal transactions which the great and powerful believe they can carry out without being caught…it challenges his brain, and satisfies his desire for social justice, for fighting for the underdog…he is a bit like Ruth, in that sense…

'Well', Ruth says gently, 'he is often tough, but he can also be very kind.' She doesn't particularly want to be drawn out on Harry, of all people, by his son, of all people – though she is getting fond of Graham.

'You all worship him here, don't you?', he asks, with a hint of belligerence.

She looks straight at him, calmly. 'No. We don't. We're…loyal. As he is to us.'

He takes it as the rebuke it is meant to be and lowers his head. But he feels compelled to say something. 'To you…he's…he's the legendary Harry Peace. Tough, but kind and loyal. I can see what he is like, you know….he listens to what you have to say. All of you. He makes you feel valued. Respected.' He pauses, and looks away, tears pricking his eyes. 'But to us…my sister and I…he is the father who missed most of our school plays. Who made us feel as if we weren't important enough for him. He belittled my sister's film work for years, for God's sake, even though she's one of the best documentary makers around…I'd come back from school with grades, and he would never say just 'well done', he would always say 'well done but why didn't you get better marks?'…'

The picture he is painting pains her, though she had guessed as much. _It's because he loves you and is afraid for you_, she wants to tell him; _and he doesn't know how to love you well, but God knows his own father wasn't much of a role model…and you should have seen his face, his eyes, when he thought you or Katharine were in danger…_'He's trying as best as he can', she says simply. ' And I know that the best people can do isn't always good enough but…' She rubs her face, tiredly. 'He's trying really hard. Under appalling pressure.'

Graham returns her smile, turns back to his screen, and freezes. 'God. Ruth. I think…I think we've got something big. Really big. There's…' He prints out a file, in a frenzy, and keeps talking in rapid staccato…

'Graham.'

'What?'

'Go now and tell him yourself', she says firmly. 'It's _your_ find. Take responsibility for it. And the credit too.'

'You're sure?I mean, he's busy and…'

'Go. Now.'

He hurries to his father's office.

**3.**

'Dad!'

He is startled by the urgency in his son's voice, and panic grips him. He springs from his chair. 'What? What's wrong? Are you OK…? Graham, please, tell me…and for Christ's sake don't call me Dad here! We've agreed that it's too risky and…….'

Graham stares at his father, taken aback by the strength of his reaction. 'I'm fine. Really. Cool it, Dad. There's no one else around but the core team.'

Harry sinks back down heavily. 'Yes. You're right. Sorry…for a moment I thought….anyway. I'm sorry. Go ahead. What did you want to tell me?'

'Look at this list of transactions. Look at the names, Dad….I've crossed-referred with this other list and…'

He summarizes his findings, concisely, clearly, and by the time he's finished, Harry looks at him with newfound respect. He is also very pale. 'My God…this is…' He gets up and start pacing, deep in thought. 'OK', he says after a few moments. 'I am going to go and talk to the Home Secretary. Meanwhile, you keep digging but please, please don't get too close. Don't let them rumble you, alright? And don't say anything yet to the others. We'll tell them at the afternoon meeting. OK?'

'Not even Ruth?', he asks innocently.

'Actually. You're right. She can start analysing some of this while I talk to the Home Secretary. Would you ask her to come in, please? And….Graham…well done. Really.'

There's no hint of condescension in his voice, just respect, and pleasure at a job well done. Graham nods, with a smile, and goes in search of Ruth.

**4. **

'Harry. You wanted to see me?'

'Hi…Yes. Come in…'

It's the first time since the night at the warehouse that they are alone together. He's barely had time to breathe, to think, to collect himself, but now that she is standing in front of him, her hair pulled back, her eyes clear, her skin fresh, he realises, as always in moments of serious tension at work, that however busy they are, however worried he is about Nightingale, she is never far from his thoughts. Paris, in fact, is never far from his thoughts, and in those moments when she is so close to him that he can see the fine lines around her eyes and smell her light perfume, he can't help remembering that night, and torturing himself once more with thoughts of what might have been.

'Harry?'

'Sorry. Yes.' He shakes himself. He must have been staring at her, silently, without realising it…'Graham's just found out that the deputy leaders of both main parties have received payments, via several intermediaries, from all five corporations whose senior execs we suspect of belonging to Nightingale. So…'

'So we have to assume that their whole teams are in on it as well. What's the scenario there, for election day?'

'This is how it will develop, I think. Chaos. Impossible to know who won. The leaders are made to look ineffectual. The results are manipulated to make it look as if it's a hung parliament. The deputy leaders take over and tell the King that they are ready to form a coalition government. On a strict security, law and order platform, with summary trials of opponents, systematic curtailment of civil liberties…'

She pales. 'This is grotesque, Harry…Also, this could only work if they could get the electoral commission on board. But we have checked out all commissioners. They are all clean.'

'Then, I don't know, Ruth…I simply don't know how they can make this work…Unless they have decided to bomb the electoral commission building. John is on to that.'

She can see how exhausted, drained he is by the sheer effort of trying to work out, in the very little time that they have, how best to thwart the threat. She too is exhausted: the worry, the fear that they will simply not be able to pull it off, but also the long, restless nights spent battling her feelings for him, are taking their toll. He is standing next to her, so close that she can see the lines on his face, smell his aftershave, and right now she would love nothing more than to lean against him, fully, to draw strength, warmth and comfort from his bulk.

'We're doing everything we can, Harry. Surely you know that. We can't expect more of ourselves', she says instead. 'Anyway. Katharine has just faxed this through the secure line. It's the speech she's written for the King, in case he has to address the nation…she's a great writer.'

He scans the document quickly, and a soft smile plays on his lips. 'Yes. Yes. She is….I'm very lucky with my children…They're…' He stops, annoyed with himself for being to thoughtless.

'It's OK, Harry. You've got two wonderful grown up children. _I _know that, and so do you, even if it's taken you a long time to see it.' She walks to the door, ramrod stiff. '_Don't_ treat me as if I were made of china glass, Harry. I _cannot _stand it', she says tightly.

'But I don't know how to treat you, Ruth', he whispers softly as he watches her sit down at her desk. 'THAt's the thing. I simply don't know anymore…'

With a sigh, he picks up his secure phone. 'Home Secretary. We need to talk. Now.'

9


	12. Chapter 12

5

**Ch 12**

**Two weeks before the elections**

**1.**

She runs to Harry's office, and this time doesn't even bother to knock. 'Two intercepts from GCHQ. One is a phone conversation between two members of the white extremist cell Ros is undercover with. They're planning an attack. It's a bomb. Three days from now. They're…' She's struggling to speak. 'Harry, the target….it's the Southwark Mosque.'

He stiffens. 'My God…Activate CO19. Now. And get me Ros on a secure line.'

'Harry..I've tried. She's not answering. She was supposed to check in with Tariq 15mns ago but…'

He gets up and rushes to the young man's desk. 'Tariq?'

'Nothing…Harry, she _always _checks in, it's…' There's panic in Tariq's voice, more panic than Harry, or Ruth, has ever heard in him.

'Can you get a trace on her mobile?'

'I tried. Nothing…she must have switched it off. Or….'

'Or someone discovered who she really is and…' Harry completes grimly. His voice is calm, his tone composed, but his hands are gripping Tariq's chair so tightly that his knucles are white. 'Try Lucas, and red patch John', he commands.

'Harry…', Ruth interjects.

'Yes?'

'The second intercept…it's the islamist cell this time. They too are planning a bomb attack. The day after the Mosque bombing….'

'Christ. Target?'

'St Paul's Cathedral. During the mid morning service on Sunday.'

He sinks in the chair. 'A week and a half before the elections...Right. Tariq, have you…? Good. Lucas? Ros's off radar. Can you go to the cell's main house and take a look? CO19 should be on their way there. If you can't find her, go back undercover. No, Lucas! No…You _can't_ abandon your undercover work now! They're planning to blow a bomb at St Paul's during the 10am service on Sunday, and we don't have enough manpower to deal with them _and _with the neo-nazis now. If you don't have your regular check in with them today, they'll get suspicious, do you hear me?!' He's raising his voice, and beads of sweat appears on his brow, but he still remains controlled, focused. 'It's a direct order, Lucas. Are we clear? Good. As soon as your guys are pulled in, you can come back and help us look for Ros.' He clicks the phone shut.

'Ruth, where's Graham?', he asks tightly.

'Outside for his mid morning smoke…ah. There he is.'

'Graham. Ros's gone missing. Have you completed your inquiries into fraudulent transactions involving the parties' deputy leaders? Good. Give me the file ….' He opens the secure phone he only uses in situations of extreme emergency to call Andrew Lawrence. He dials the number….'Home Secretary…Ros has disappeared…No…we're not…Home Secretary, please, let me ….we're doing everything we….Andrew!!!!!' His angry shouts reverbates around the Grid, and silences them all. Including the man on the other end of the line. 'Andrew. Listen to me. We're doing everything we can to find her. One of my agents is going through all comms, CCTV footage around the cell house….They're planning an attack on the Southwark Mosque in three days. I can only assume that Ros found out, but that they rumbled her. SO19 and Lucas North are on the way to their house. No, Andrew, you are not going there! Why???' He stops, and takes a deep breath, and somehow, from deep within himself, finds the strength and courage to say what needs saying, coldly, ruthlessly. 'Because you hold one of the three great offices of the State. You _chose_ this, Andrew. No one made you do it. You _chose _to accept this public honour, and you _will _conduct yourself as befits it. And that means _not _running around London in search of your lover. Particularly when you are very certainly being tailed by Nightingale. Do you understand? Good. I will ring you on this phone every half hour, more if I have news….Yes. Yes, I promise. Oh…and you can call me Harry.'

He clicks the phone shut and gets hold of the financial file. 'Ruth? Have you still got this senior contact at the Serious Fraud Squad? Good. Phone him now and arrange a meeting right away. You'll come with me now. Graham, Tariq, you hold the fort here. Any news, any news at all, you call. Meanwhile…Graham, get hold of your sister. Tell her that she and her BBC team should get ready to run a news items on both plots, highlighting how efficient the secret services and CO19 are at apprehending suspects according to the rule of law, without breach of civil liberties, while preserving democratic institutions, etc. A bit of promotion won't hurt.'

And he's off, Ruth in his trail, his determined stand masking the fear and worry gnawing at him.

**2. **

'Andrew? It's me. The cell's white van was filmed on CCTV leaving the house two hours ago. No. There's no one in the house so we have to assume that they've taken her with them. Yes…yes, I know you do…So do I, Andrew, believe me. Like a second daughter. We're getting all the CCTV footage we have, and have traced the van's movements up until half an hour ago…we'll get them. I promise you. We'll get them. Her too. So hold in there…Hang on, Ruth Evershed wants a word.'

He hands over the phone to Ruth. Funny how, to strangers, he always refers to her by her first and surname. As if the easy familiarity of her first name, which he loves, had to be reserved for their very close circle of colleagues..

She stares at him, thrown by his admission to Lawrence, not so much about the strength of his feelings for Ros – she had guessed as much – but by his willingness to admit to them. It worries her, because it shows how vulnerable he is feeling. She takes the phone from his hand. 'Home Secretary? Katharine Townsend…yes, yes, Harry's daughter. She and her team are on standby for a favourable newsreport along the lines 'yes it's possible to counter terrorism without breaching our most important liberties…could you make yourself available for interview? I know it's a lot to ask under the circumstances but….Yes. I think so….Good. Thanks. I'll let them know. Yes…Yes, I'll tell him.'

She terminates the call. 'He asked me to say that he couldn't think of anyone better than you, than us, to find Ros. He was pretty shaken.'

'I know….Sorry, I've got to take this. Graham? Yes??? Where?? OK. John there? Good. Patch me through. John? Proceed with extreme caution….we've got no idea whether…whether she's alive. Tell CO19, OK? We're about to meet with Ruth's contact at the fraud office but you call me any time.'

He looks at Ruth, pale, lines of worry etched on his face. 'They've found the van. Parked in front of a disused factory….They're about to go in…God. I wish I could be there', he says through clenched teeth. 'I wish I were twenty years younger and….' He stops, powerless to express his fear and frustration.

She puts her hand on his arm, and this time, for once he doesn't pull back or remain stubbornly tense under her touch. So she lets her hand rest and linger…'Come on. Let's go. We've got to meet my guy.'

Throughout the meeting, during which they give Ruth's contact enough information to trigger a full scale inquiry into the finances of all three deputy leaders, their minds are elsewhere, on what might be happening at the factory, on Ros…

They leave, their job done, unable to talk to each other, each lost in their thoughts…'What?', he barks into his phone. He sags against the wall. 'You're sure? Is she….did they…? Thank God.' He takes a deep breath, his hand instictively reaching to Ruth. 'Well done, John. Well done. See you back to the Grid. Call Katharine and tell her what has happened. She'll know what to do. I'll call the Home Secretary.'

'She was found tied to a chair. She'd been slapped around already apparently. They were about to torture her when CO19 got in.'

'Oh god. How is she?'

'Shaken. Fine. But shaken….Andrew? They found her. Yes. Yes…By all means, go to the Grid, but…she looks rough, OK? Good. I'll see you there.'

He rubs his face. Without realising it, he's moved to stand very close to Ruth. She doesn't pull back. They remain standing there, for a few moments, with no need for words, enjoying the comfort which the other's mere presence brings them. 'Come on', he says at last, 'let's get back to the Grid. We've got to figure out through Lucas what the other side are up to.'

She sighs. 'It never stops, does it?' She is tired of it all, tired of the constant struggle, of the never ending tension. Of the fear she can never keep at bay that one other trusted colleague, as close as a friend can be, closer even, will be taken away from her. Of the memories which every possible loss of that kind always reawakens in her. Of having to fight alone despite those very rare, and very briefs, moments of pure understanding between them, - always alone in the silence of her house, in the dim light of the Grid, so close yet so far from the one person whom touch she craves above all, whose voice she always longs to hear, whose eyes she wants to see trained on her burning with passion and not constant fatigue and wariness….

'No. It doesn't.' _But in two weeks_, he can't help thinking, after the election is over, _my two months are up. I'll go back to Andrew and insist he let me resign. It'll be over for me at least…as for you…_

'I haven't changed my mind, you know', she blurts out. 'About resigning.'

He stiffens and moves away from her. 'Nor have I.'

Closeness over.


	13. Chapter 13

6

**We're getting there guys…two or three chs after this one.**** This chapter requires huge suspension of belief. The next two or three, which will be full of angst, won't. But I need to get the spy plot going, and I am not very good at it. So…bear with me.**

**Ch 13**

**Elections day- the Grid**

**1. 8am**

'Right. Let's begin. Tariq?'

'We're monitoring the usual blogs and websites. Nothing out of the ordinary. Feeds and bugs into senior party members' constituencies, party headquarters, 10 Downing Street, Electoral Commission, Attorney General Office… All going well so far.'

'Graham?'

'I heard from the Serious Fraud Squad this morning. As you know, the deputy party leaders who had received money from Nightingale-based MNCs were arrested last week. The Fraud Squad have unconvered suspicious banking activity in the bank accounts of about 30 MPs. I've been laising with them throughout. It looks as if the cases are rock solid.'

'Good. Lucas?'

'Since the members of the islamist cell I was with were arrested two weeks ago, all quiet on that front. I'll be shadowing the PM throughout the day. We have a surveillance team ready to go.'

'John?'

'Likewise with the leaders of the opposition. Everything is in place there. Media wise, they're all ful of praise for the way the two plots have been foiled, all within democratic institutions, etc. So we're good on that front too.'

'Ros?'

'Well, with my bruises and all, I am rather too conspicuous for shadowing work…so I'll stay in the van with the techy guys outside Andrew's constituency office. Tariq,are you sure that…?'

'Yes. I'm sure. No rumour or hint whatsoever of an attack on his life. I promise, Ros. In fact quite a lot of blogs are full of praise for him since the foiled attempts – champion for democracy and all that. At this rate, you'll be moving into 10 Downing Street.'

'Ah. Ah. Ah. Very funny. His party would have to win the elections first…Harry, is it OK if…'

'Yes. Stay with Andrew throughout the evening, report back here at 7am tomorrow.'

'Oh, so now it's 'Andrew', then, not 'Home Secretary'?

'Well, yes, since I saw him almost in tears trying to clean up your face after you were attacked. Moments like this…they do tend to make formalities rather pointless, don't you think? Now. Ruth?....Ruth? Are you with us?'

'Umm. Sorry. Yes. I'm sorry. My mind was…anyway. So. We've ticked all the boxes. Left no angle uncovered. Imagined every possible scenario. Sent out teams to protect every major player. The 'good elements' in the army, navy and air force are on standby. So is the King in case something really does happen, which seems unlikely. Oh, and the Royal Family have been shipped off to Balmoral.'

'Shipped off. I see. I guess that's one way to put it…Now. It's not over yet. It won't be over until the leaders of the defeated parties concede defeat and the King formally appoints our next PM. So, we keep going today and throughout the night – with one hour off each to go and vote, no more than two at a time, until you are off in the field. Check the rota with Tariq on this…..and listen. Congratulations everyone. It looks as if we have defeated them, through luck, but mostly sheer, relentless hard work. I'm very proud of what you have achieved. This is our first and last meeting today. We reconvene for a full debrief tomorrow morning.'

**2. 8:30am.**

She isn't at her desk, so his steps take him naturally to the roof terrace – where she always goes when she needs to think, or when – as he thinks is the case now – she is worried about something.

He moves slowly, the better to contemplate her profile in the early morning light .Since the attack on Ros, and that moment when she drew away from him again, they haven't really talked. He's given up on trying to reach through to her. He is too old, too tired for this emotional roller coaster, for the lonely nights spent battling his body's desire for her, for the long days spent hoping that they will get some of their old closeness back. He had his chance, and blew it, and that's that. Once he is away from this place, from this job, more or less next week in fact, he will begin the long, arduous task of getting over her. But now Nightingale is the priority. And it's because of Nightingale that he is here, on this roof, the scene of so many of his memories of her, the place which he will always, he knows, associate with her.

She turns round, and acknowledges him with a brief, wan smile. Her eyes are shadowed, the fine skin around them showing wrinkles. She's lost weight. He can spot a few grey hair…. Everything about her screams exhaustion, end-of-tetherness. He's never loved her more.

'What's wrong?', he asks simply.

'Nothing. It's just…it's nothing. I can't quite believe that it's almost the end of….of this.'

Of what, he wants to ask? Of your time here, since you really want to leave? Of us seeing each other every day? Of Nightingale?

He says nothing. He waits, patiently, thinking that this is perhaps the last time that they are meeting here, on this roof terrace, that by God he has earned that moment, alone with her, a brief respite, before they each go back to their work and, in a few days, to their separate lives. The silence lasts, and lasts, and suddenly, he cannot bear it any longer. One last attempt….'Ruth…'

'You see', she says at the same time, 'I know we've covered it all. I know that we couldn't have done more. And I know that all our intelligence suggests that we have managed to neuter the threat. But deep down…that's what worries me. It's…'

'Go on.'

'It's too quiet. I mean…we foil their two major plots, we have some of their key players arrested and they do _nothing?_ An organisation like that? Before the hotel blast they were largely lead by rogue CIA agents. Most of them were arrested afterwards. But…is that it? Really?'

'Well, yes. Why not, Ruth? Why can't we have one big success without any major explosion somewhere, without….' He clenche his teeth, 'without one of us dying or…perhaps that's simply it, Ruth. That they were not as powerful as we thought, and we got them. End of story.'

She shakes her head. 'I hope so. I really hope you're right.'

'Anyway. In a couple of weeks at the most, we'll both be out of this place, of this world…'

She looks away. 'I still don't understand why you want to leave. _I'm_ leaving. So there's no point in you going as well…'

'I've had it, frankly. Malcolm was right. One gets too old for this. I am. Come on. Let's get back to work….and, Ruth…'

'Yes?'

'No. Forget it. It's nothing.'

**3.**** 7pm**

She looks around her. The Grid is silent. Ros, John and Lucas are off in the field, Tariq off to vote, in the nick of time before the polling stations close. He should be back soon. She hopes so at any rate, because with just Harry, Graham and her, it feels spookily empty. They won't get a sense of the projected results, based on exit polls, until 8pm. So far, everything has gone well. No major disruption, no major demonstration, no signs of disquiet in the police or in the barracks.

She cannot quite believe that this is it. She tried to convey her unease to Harry earlier, but it was so vague, so undefined, that she could not quite explain it to him. She knows too that she probably feels that way partly because she is about to leave, and is facing the prospect of not seeing him again every day, not feeling that rush of adrenaline when she is around him. She will not miss the pain and grief which have been her constant companions since Paris. But, oh, she will miss the flashes of closeness, the moments of friendships and understanding which they still somehow managed to claw out from the madness of their lives here and from the searing memories of what they shared, briefly, unwisely, in that hotel room two months before…

She can feel Graham's eyes on her, and looks up.

'You OK?, he asks.

'Yes, yes I am…why?', she fidgets.

'Nothing…it's just…You looked a bit sad there. For a moment.'

'I'm OK. Really', she smiles at him wanly.

'Good. Look, it's gone quiet. Just a question of waiting really. Do you mind if I go and have my ciggie break now? I'll be back in 15mns….hey Dad. How was your meeting with the DG?'

'Hi. Fine. The usual. Most people have left the building now except for skeleton staff in other sections.', Harry shrugs , inwardly marvelling at how composed, professional, _together_, this son of his is. 'Everything OK here?'

'Yep. I was saying to Ruth…I'm off on my ciggie break…yes, yes, I know, I shouldn't.'

'I didn't say anything!', Harry protests, glad of the light humour in Graham's voice – two months before, he would have sounded belligerent and resentful.

'No, but you thought it so loudly I could practically hear it! OK. I'm off. Behave, you two.'

Harry makes a point of watching Graham's back, of not looking at Ruth, of trying not to notice the way she winced at Graham's unwittingly ill-judged remark.

He is glad that they are alone together. Earlier, he made a decision – that no matter what, he would not leave, he would not allow her to leave, without clearing the air. Not that he thinks that there is any chance for them as a couple. Not that he plans to tell her that he loves her: clearly she would find that an unwelcome burden. But he at least wants, no, he _needs_ to tell her how much he regrets the misunderstandings between them, the anger, the pain, the tension…how much he wishes they had been able to salvage something from this mess. He clears his throat.

'Ruth?' She must have heard the catch in his voice, because she stares up at him, very suddenly, on guard almost. 'Ruth….I…in a few days…we will both tender our resignations. Formally. I..there's so much history between us. Can we at least…' He takes a deep breath. 'Can we at least talk? I mean, _properly _talk?'

'Harry…please…I….'

'Ruth. Come on. Don't you think we owe each other that much? That we owe _ourselves_ that much?'

Her heart starts hammering in her chest. 'Yes', she says, mouth dry. 'We do. But not here.'

'No. Not here.'

She gets up and grabs her coat, knowing perfectly well what he has in mind. He follows her. And almost bump into her as she stops very abruptly.

'What's wrong?' he asks, alarmed.

She pushes against the main door. 'It's locked. I don't know what…I can't open it, Harry.'

He pushes it, with all his strength and weight. The door doesn't give. Ruth runs to the manual override. 'It's not responding, Harry…', frightened.

He pulls out his mobile and dials Ros. 'I'm not getting any signal', he says grimly. 'You?'

She tries Graham. 'No. No signal either.'

He walks quickly to the nearest computer terminal. 'My God. All the systems are down.'

They stared at each other, realisation slowly dawning in their eyes.


	14. Chapter 14

5

**Ch 14.**

**1. **

Half of Thames House is a pile of rubbles. The other half is only standing thanks to steel boulders. The whole site is cordonned off, under surveillance 24/7. As Lucas and Ros contemplates the scale of the disaster, their thoughts turn to Harry and Ruth, to Nightingale too, whose swan song this is.

Ros' phone rings. She doesn't hear it. Four days since the explosion –and she is still feeling numb. At last the phone gets through to her. 'Andrew?'

'We've got them. They were arrested an hour ago in Madrid. The Spanish police are questioning them but five of the Met's best interrogators are on their way.'

For the first time since the explosion, she feels a stirring of an emotion other than pure rage – relief, at long last, that this is over**. **Anger still prevails. 'I want to be there. And I bloody well hope that you will ask for their extradition.'

'We will, and you are not going.'

'Excuse me?'

'Ros…' He sighs, and suddenly she hears the exhaustion in his voice, and the sadness too. He hasn't had it easy either, the last few days. His party won the elections, his seat is secure, and so is his cabinet position. But still….'Ros. If you hadn't remembered that there will still ten members of section C who hadn't been checked out… if you hadn't had the idea of getting Tariq to get into their files and cross reference everything…and if you hadn't guessed that those guys had the means to plant a bomb in the basement….both bombs would have blown up. More people would have died. Don't you think you've done enough?'

'No! I don't think I have done enough! Ruth and Harry are….' She stops, the catch in her voice unmistakable.

'I know. I know….but…the best way to get them, and to make sure that they spend the rest of their lives in prison, is to do everything by the book. Everything, Ros. You're too close, too involved for me to let you near them. Don't you see? Besides… you' re de facto head of section D, and your place is here.'

His voice is warm, reassuring, filled with love and concern and it is that to which she yields, rather than the power of his keen intellect. 'OK. You win. I'm staying.'

'It's not a matter of winning or losing, Ros….Plus…I love you. I need you with me, here, in London. Please. '

She closes her eyes. 'Alright. Alright..' She takes a deep breath. 'I love you too', she utters in a strangled voice.

He chuckles softly. 'Is Lucas with you now? Good. Are you two…?'

'Yes. We're going now.

'Good luck. Give me a ring when you're done.'

She clicks the phone shut, and meets Lucas' eyes, bright blue with affection and sadness. 'Come on', he says gently. 'Let's go.'

**2.**

Graham and Kate walks slowly through the hospital's grounds, ost in their thoughts. 'I'm worried about him', Graham says at last. 'I don't know how he will survive this. It's as if…as if he's lost the will to live.'

'He's not lost the will to live, Graham. It's more…every ounce energy he has, every little bit of strength, is focused on Ruth. There's no space for anything else right now.' She falls silent. 'And that's how it should be', she adds in a low, strained voice.

'Because she saved his life by remembering the disused ventilation shaft?'

'Yes. That. If they had stayed on the Grid…they would have died. As it is, they somehow managed to make their way to the first floor and to escape from the worst of the explosion.'

'Well. Good for Dad. But fat the lot of good it did her. She's been in a coma ever since they were pulled out.'

'Why do you think he won't leave her bedside, Graham? Because he feels guilty. That's why. He can't bear the thought that she might not make it whereas he's getting away with minor concussion and a few fractured ribs.'

Graham mulls it over. 'Besides, I think he loves her', he says suddenly. 'I figured it out last night. He was holding her hand and crying. I should have guessed really.'

She gapes at him. 'Really? Do you think that's also why…?'

He nods. 'I could feel some vibes between them. Back on the Grid. I couldn't get a read on them together but now…it all makes sense.'

She rubs her eyes. 'So now what?'

'We give him all the support he needs, and prays that Ruth recovers. Because if she doesn't…he's finished.'

**3. **

Lucas dropped her off at the hospital before going back to MI5's temporary home within MI6;s headquarters. She walks down the corridor towards Ruth's room, dreading already what is awaiting her: Ruth surrounded by tubes, looking so small and frail in her bed, Harry sitting in the chair next to her – the chair which he has only vacated, the last four days, to grab a bit of food and have a shower – looking ten years older than he is….

She clenches her teeth, and braces herself. _Come on_, she thinks, _you've got to do this. You owe them that much._

Harry looks up as she enters the room. He is almost gaunt now, his face a portrait of fear and grief. She places her hand on his arm, instinctively, the first time ever in their quasi filial relationship that she has physically shown her affection and respect for him.

'I've just spoken to her consultant', she says without preamble. 'He thinks that her prospects are improving a lot.'

He nods. 'Yes. I know…but…' He bites his lips and turns away from her, back towards the bed.

She hates seeing him like this- frail, vulnerable, utterly dependent on the reassuring words of a stranger, as he will be in fact in 15 years, not to long now….

'Andrew rang', she carries on doggedly. 'They caught the guys who did this.'

'Good'. He is not interested. Nothing in fact interests him, other than the woman on that bed, fighting her way back towards consciousness.

Ros sighs. 'Look. Why don't you get a bit of fresh air? Your children are outside. You could do with their company, I think. I'll stay with Ruth. Come on. You're not good to her if you don't take care of yourself.'

He can see the sense in this. 'I'll be back in an hour. Ring me if there's any change, do you hear? Any change at all.'

At her nod, he leaves, heavily, painfully as his ribs are still hurting him, as if there's no end in sight. No end at all.

**3. **

His walk takes him through the grounds. He knows, vaguely, that the fresh air is doing him good, that his legs need stretching, that his entire body needs relieving from the sheer tension of sitting in that chair, day in day out…He is almost losing track of time. After a while, he spots his children, and walks towards them, his two grown-up children whose kindness he does not deserve really. They are deeply absorbed in their conversation. He hears snatches of it, 'Ruth', 'love', but they stop when they notice him. 'Hey, Dad', Graham greets him.

Kate moves in his embrace, giving as much as receiving comfort. He almost clings to her, forgetting in that moment that he is supposed to be the strong one, the present father.

'Thanks', he says simply, unable to hide his emotions from them.

'Do you…do you really want to stay here tonight? We could all go back to yours, and stay with you tonight if you want.'

He shakes his head. 'No. I;m staying here.'

'Dad. You've been sleeping in that chair for four nights, your ribs..'

'I'm staying', he insists, stubbornly. 'And that's that….

His phone rings. He opens it, feverishly, and brings it to his ears.

He goes white, and lets it drop onto the ground. His eyes are almost glassy. He can't speak.

Kate picks up the phone and looks at the screen quickly. 'Ros?'she asks tautly. 'Really? Are you sure? Thank God…oh, thank God…' Tears spring to her eyes. 'No, he is…it's the shock, I think. Actually, he's on his way back to the ward. Hold on, he's running, I can barely keep up…talk to you soon.'

'I'll call the others', Graham says.

She nods, running, running, running, trying to catch Harry up, failing.


	15. Chapter 15

6

**Ch 15**

**1.**

She is fading in and out of sleep, her entire body a wave of pain which only morphine can assuage. She is vaguely aware of the nurses' comforting hand on her brow, of a round of visitors, one at a time and for no more than 15mns each, by her bedside. Lucas, Ros, John, Graham, Katharine, Tariq….and her old friend Lucy too, once or twice.

And Harry. Of course. Somehow he seems to stay for longer periods, with the tacit understanding and complicity of the nurses. Sometimes he sits in the chair by her bed. Sometimes he sits on the bed, but not too close. Through her pain, she notices that he looks very tired. That his clothes always seem crumpled. She wonders why he is here, and not at the Grid. And in those moments she dimly remembers hearing the deafening noise of an explosion. So perhaps there is no Grid anymore. But she is too tired to start thinking about this, to start pondering and analysing possibilities…all she can do is relinquish control, for once, over her feelings, her emotions, her pain.

All she can do is long for a human touch, for someone, any one, other than the nurses, to put a reassuring and comforting hand on her brow, on her arm, on her hand, anywhere really…a touch which would keep the nightmares at bay – nigthmares of of Jo, and Adam, and Zaf, and Danny….she can hear herself moan and call out their names in her feverish sleep, she pictures George playing football with Nico shortly before he died, she sees him fall to the ground, mercifully oblivious to his fate, and she screams his name, again and again and again…she calls out for Nico too…

The one person she doesn't dream about is Harry.

**2. **

After a few days, she remembers clearly what happened. The two of them making their way to the roof terrace, for the conversation which she has been longing for, and dreading at the same time. Realising that they were locked in, frantically trying emails, internal phones, their mobiles….to no avail. Until Harry remembered the secure phone he would always use to call the Home Secretary. Let's try this one, she remembers him saying, bleakly….because if it fails….but it did work. She remembers the look of relief on his face when he got through Andrew Lawrence, and via him through Ros. Come here, he urged her, get the team to work, something terrible is happening…

She remembers feeling useless, terrified that they would die, unable to think of a strategy to get them out. Until she thought of the disused ventilation shaft. She remembers pulling out the plans for the building, somehow left lying in an old cupboard. She remembers convincing him to give it a try. He wasn't convinced at first. It's too risk, he told her, what if we are stuck there, what if we can't find our way out,what if….She remembers losing her temper, as she had never done with him. _If you wan't to die here like a rat, fine!_ She remembers shouting. _But I don't and I'll be damned if I go down without a fight!_ She remembers getting the tool box from the emergency supply cupboard, and unscrewing the cover from the shaft. She remembers struggling, and his hands on hers as he took over, gruffly assenting to her mad plan.

She remembers crawling in that dark tunnel, bearing east towards the exit, Harry crawling in front of her – he wouldn't let her go first, she lost that fight with him – inch by inch, her lungs on fire, her elbows and knees screaming with pain…she remembers not really knowing why she was doing this save for the pull of her survival instinct. Until she told herself that she wanted to live, desperately, and to live a better life, a life spent not in lonely frustration but in joy and delight at the sound of music, the sight of waves lapping by the sea….a life where she would dare to love.

And then, the noise, deafening, her scream. Harry's too, screaming her name, and nothing.

And so now she is there, on this hospital bed, submitting herself to the doctors' endless tests and the nurses' impersonal touch, looking forward to visiting times, and not really understanding why Harry looks so sad, and drawn, when he should rejoice in being alive.

**3. **

Her face is no longer a patchwork of green, yellow and blue. The bruises are fading, and her cheekbones are sharper, better defined, so that the deep, bright blue of her eyes is almost blinding. He can discern the slim, thin shape of her body underneath the sheets, and he knows, without having seen them of course that her ribs and breastbones are produding painfully. He knows too that she is in a lot of pain though is trying to hide it.

He comes in every day and sits with her. As she begins to start speaking again, croakedly, he becomes correspondingly restrained. He doesn't know what to tell her. Thank you for saving my life, and oh, by the way, I'm really sorry but the doctors think you'll always walk with a limp? I love you, and I was so scared all along that you would die, and I am terrified that something like this would happen again? Hey, I haven't changed my mind about resigning, in fact I'm on my way to meet the home secretary this afternoon to give him my letter, but what about meeting up for coffee the week after next, when you leave the hospital? I mean, surely we can put behind that business of my getting your husband killed, can't we? Of course not. How could he possibly say those things?

So he comes in, every day, stoically, knowing that every day that goes by takes him nearer the time when he will no longer see her.

He rests his head against the back of the chair, as he waits for Andrew Lawrence to be done with his meeting. He's early. He doesn't mind that. Time to rehearse what he wants to say…and then, after this, he has got one more thing to do, one more promise to fulfill – made easier by the document safely tucked up inside his jacket – before he fades away into the background.

'Ah, Harry. Sorry to keep you waiting. Come in.'

He follows the younger man wordlessly and sinks on the sofa in the far corner of the room.

'Andrew', he sighs, 'This cant be postponed any longer. I haven't changed my mind you know. My two months are up and….'

Lawrence shakes his head. 'No. I can't accept this…No, please, hear me out. Please.' He clasps his hands together, acutely uncomfortable. Whilst relations between them are much more cordial than they used to be, thanks to Ros, they are far from being fully relaxed together. And he is not quite sure how to phrase what he wants to say, especially to a man old enough to be his father. 'Harry…. You've had a terrible shock. All of you. You can't make that kind of decision now. It's not….it's not the right time. Especially while Ruth is still….'

'I beg your pardon?' Harry asks, frostily, icily, utterly unwilling to go down that road.

But Lawrence to his credit does not back down. In fact, he looks straight at him. 'Look. I don't know exactly what is going on between you two. Ros has been….unforthcoming, to say the least. But I 'm not stupid. I know there's something. Some unfinished business. And I will not agree to your resigning until you've either decided to sort it out, one way or the other, or have decided that you don't want to sort it out. And for that, you need time.' He gets up. 'Take a month off, effective now. Go to…wherever. And if in a month, you still want to go, then I will accept it.' He pulls out a sheet of paper and a pen. 'Tell you what. Write it now. Forward date it to a month today, and leave it with me. If you don't call me in a month, I will consider that you have resigned.'

'Come on. You can't do that. I've served a reasonable notice, I've given years of my life to the service, you can't…'

'One month, Harry.' His tone is inflexible, and this time, Harry knows that he is beaten.

And so he writes the letter. And signs it. Angrily. 'Fine. But I need something from you', he says. 'I need a private audience with the King and the Queen. Just them, and me. Can you get me that?'

'Yes. Yes, of course….I'll let you know when I hear back from the Palace.'

Harry nods, and gets back, still angry, still fuming at the audacity of this man young enough to be his son.

'Harry?'

He pauses, hand on the door handle.

'Harry….good luck. With everything.'

He nods, and is gone.

4.

**Buckingham Palace**

'Sir Harry…come in, come in.'

The King ushers him in, his body language slightly awkward, but the smile of welcome warm and genuine. The Queen greets him, graciously.

'What can we for you? You only need to ask, you know… the country owes you so much', she smiles admiringly.

He pulls out a thick file from his briefcase. 'I would like you both to read this. I must warn you, though…it doesn't make for pleasant reading.'

The King and Queen peruse the file, quickly at first, then increasingly slowly, blanching as they go along.

'What do you want?', the Queen asks, all business now.

'Tomorrow morning, at 9am, the Duchess of Westmoreland will ask her husband, your brother, for a divorce. She will demand full custody of the children and insist that he should not be allowed unsupervised access. She will also demand a reasonably generous financial settlement. I want you to persuade the Duke to agree to those terms right away'

'And if we don't? If he refuses?'

'Then the file will be released to all major newspapers. _All _of it. Including the photos of his wife's body after a beating. Including testimonies of staff which you paid off so that they would keep their mouth shut. Including testimonies of prostitutes whom the Duke has had sex with, some of whom he has roughed up.' He pauses, then repeats, ruthlessly, 'all of it.'

'You wouldn't.'

'Try me. Oh. And the Duchess will have that meeting with her husband in the presence of her lawyer, and the lawyer's assistant.'

'You mean one of your agents…this is ridiculous. I cannot agree to have my brother treated…'

'Your Majesty', Harry cuts in, at the end of his tether. 'Your brother is a sadistic psychopath who will not take kindly to being stood up to. I would not want him to kill his wife in a fit of rage. Her safety, and that of the children, is my priority.'

'My brother would never do that!'

Harry gets out a file from inside his jacket. His trump card. 'This is the postmortem file of a prostitute who was murdered about six weeks ago. Her body was dumped in a dockland warehouse. The autopsy shows that she was drugged before being killed. It also shows that she had had intercourse shortly before dying. My team and I believe that she was killed by Nightingale, as a way to frame….one of my agents. We have enough evidence to start preparing a case. Her body was found next to him. He too had been drugged.'

'What does this have to do with my brother-in-law?'

'Traces of semen were found in her and analysed. I am afraid that her DNA matches the Duke's.'

'Surely you are not…and how do you have my brother's DNA anyway?'

'I don't know whether he killed her, Your Majesty. Nor do I know whether he was a member of the conspiracy. In all honesty I doubt it. But how do you think this will play out, if this goes public? As for your brother's DNA…let's say that we have ways and means.'

'Ah, but you can't afford to release that document, can you, Sir Harry, because if you do, it puts your agent in the frame. So really…'

She's got him: that's the one weakness of his strategy. That he cannot afford to have the postmortem released. But she doesn't know that his agent is his son, and that's the only card he can play at this point. 'Try me', he says again, poker faced. 'We are confident we can prove our agent didn't do it. And we would take a gamble, believe me, we would…'

'All this to help my sister-in-law? Come on. You must have another agenda…'

'I don't', he says sincerely. 'She helped me…us, at a crucial time. I made her a promise. And now it's is up to you to make sure that her divorce goes through, and that she's safe. If you don't, I will release this. The resulting scandal could really mean the end of the monarchy. So think about that.'

He gets up, doesn't bother to bow, and walks out to the door. '9am tomorrow', he says firmly.

As he leaves the palace, he pulls his phone out. 'Lucas? I think we're on. 9am tomorrow. As soon as the meeting is over, take her and the children to one of our safe houses.'

He clicks the phone shut, and settles into the car. 'To St Mary's hospital, sir?' his driver asks.

'How did you know?' he replies wryly, with a touch of sadness.

His driver shrugs. 'We always end up there somehow…she'll be all right, sir. Don't worry. She's a toughie.'

_Am I so obvious,_ Harry thinks to himself as the car speeds along the road, _am I so obvious that he would guess, and know…_


	16. Chapter 16

6

**Ch 16.**

1.

'Hello, James'.

He is so focused on watching Ruth through the glass window, on controlling the unbearable pain that grips him at the sight of what she is doing, that he doesn't hear her at first. He looks up. 'Lucy…sorry, I was miles away. But…shouldn't you be…? Oh, and by the way, my real name is Harry.'

'Harry…a good, solid children are at the safe house with two of your agents. I just wanted to come and thank you properly.'

'That's very kind of you. But really you didn't have to.'

'Yes. I did. Thanks to you, I can see a future for me. For my children. A future without fear and humiliation.' She falls silent, obviously struggling to catch her breadth. 'I don't think I could ever repay…'

'Please. Don't mention it…'

'I…I'd like to talk to Ruth but…she seems upset.'

He doesn't trust himself to he turns away. 'Harry…would you take a walk with me, for a few moments?'

Her request surprises him, but he'd rather not stay here, by the window, a witness to the end of whatever hope he may have entertained. So he follows suit, past wondering what she has in mind.

She is fidgeting. 'Harry….do you love her?'

He stares at her, dumbfounded. Affronted too. 'Excuse me, but I don't see…'

'Forgive me. Please. But…at the college ball, I saw the way you two looked at each other. There was an obvious…bond. And a few moments ago…'

'What you saw a few moments ago', he interjects harshly, 'was Ruth in tears, looking at a photo of her dead partner. Who died because of me. So really…'

And it's her turn to stare, astonishment overcoming good breeding. 'Would you like to talk about it?'

He looks at her for a long time, this beautiful and broken young woman, and her act of friendship moves him. 'Yes. Yes, I think I would.'

And as they walk through the grounds of the hospital, he tells it all. From the very first day Ruth came to work for MI5, to now. The mixture of seriousness, charm, and intensity. The way she slowly, gradually, began to pervade his waking thoughts and lonely nights, so slowly that it feels as if he never fell in love with her but always loved her, period. The missed opportunity three and a half years before, and her departure, on that cold, grey morning. Her return. George's death. The long, gentle thawing. And Paris, and the return to their war of attrition. 'Except that now, it is at least crystal clear that she loved him. And still does.'

Lucy is doubtful. 'Just because you saw her with this photo…'

'She called out for him. When she started coming out of her coma…she'd call his name. A lot.' _And not mine, not mine once_, is the implied message.

There isn't much that she can say to this. So she tries another tack. 'Were you bluffing?'

'Sorry?'

'When this man, Mani, threatened to kill Nico. When you told him that you wouldn't tell him no matter what. Were you actually bluffing?'

'Of course, I was. I was trying to buy some time.'

'Does Ruth know that?'

'No. She was so angry afterwards. She wouldn't have believed anything I'd say. So what was the point of telling her?'

'I see…in Paris…there was an explosion…not as big as it could have been though.'

She's pretty sharp, he's got to grant her that. 'I sent in two of my agents. A bit of damage limitation…this is confidential by the way. If the French Secret services ever found out…'

'And I take it Ruth doesn't know about that either?'

'No.'

'I see. And…does she know that you've been practically living at the hospital for the last three weeks? Keeping a vigil by her bed while she was in a coma? No. I didn't think so.' She shakes her head. 'Tell her all of that. She deserves to know all of it, Harry.'

'No. And please. Don't tell her. Any of it. Please. I need to….I am off for a month. A forced holiday. In fact, my driver is waiting for me. At the end of it I will formally resign. I want Ruth to be able to do the job she loves, freely, without having to worry about anything or anyone else. It's the least I can do for her….I've hurt her so much already.'

She looks at him, straight in the eyes, for a long time. 'I promise.' After a pause, she asks, conversationally, 'Are you going anywhere nice?'

'Yorkshire', he replies absent-mindedly. 'My family's from there.'

'Well. Have a good time.'

'And you too…take care of yourself. And of your children. And…please don't worry about your husband coming after you. We'll have you under protection for a few months, and will keep monitoring him closely. All on the quiet of course.'

She squeezes his arm. 'Thank you. I will go and see Ruth now….will you…?'

'No. I said my goodbyes already this morning.'

With a final nod, and a wave, Lucy Westmoreland walks off towards the hospital.

To pay her debt.

**2.**

'Hi…'

'Oh. Lucy….hi. How did it go?'

'Very well. He agreed to everything I asked for. He didn't have a choice really….I owe you so much', she says with a catch in her voice.

Ruth shrugs, wincing in pain. 'It's alright. The least we could do really…what will you do now?'

'We're going to go abroad for a while. The children….they need a break, away from it all. So do I. Harry told me that we would have secret service protection for a few months…we'll see.' She notices the flash of sadness in Ruth's eyes. 'What about you?', she asks, hesitantly. 'When are you being discharged?'

'In a couple of days…I'm all right really. As long as I don't try to run a marathon', Ruth replies, with a hint of bitternes. 'With intense physio, I should be able to walk normally within six months. It could have been worse.'

They fall silent, not really knowing how to breach the walls built by fifteen years of silence, Ruth lost in her thoughts, Lucy not really finding an angle for saying what she came here to say. _Oh stuff it_, she thinks. _I'll go for the direct approach, and she can tell me to go to hell if she wants too._ 'I saw Harry earlier', she says lightly.

'Did you?'

'Yes. He's off on some holiday apparently. Looks as if he needs it.'

'Well, we all had a rather tough time of it lately', Ruth says wanly, with a poor attempt at a smile.

Lucy takes a deep breath. 'Do you love him?'

'What?!'

'Well. The night of the college ball….there was something going between you. I could feel it. We may have lost touch, Ruth, but in College we were very close. I haven't forgotten what you look like when you…when you like someone.'

Ruth looks away. 'Harry is…it's complicated. It's been complicated for years.'

Lucy waits. She senses, instinctively, that whilst Harry needed a prompt to confide, Ruth needs to come at it in her own time, to find strength and courage in the silence of the room. So she says nothing, and waits, patiently. And slowly, haltingly at first, Ruth starts talking. And once she has started, she cannot stop. She says it all. From the very beginning. The day is turning into night when she finally comes to the end of their sad, sorry tale.

'My poor Ruth', Lucy whispers, her heart breaking for her friend. 'What do you want from him?'

'I love him. I never stopped loving him really. But…I've not seen him much these days. A bit in the morning, a bit in the afternoon….I think he feels guilty. He came to say goodbye this morning and….it was all…I don't know. Flat, somehow. He didn't even tell me where he was going.'

_Now that's interesting_, Lucy muses to herself. 'Do you still love George as well? In a way, I mean….'

'I think…I always liked him, very much…but love him?' Her eyes fill with tears. 'No. Not in the way I love Harry. Never in that way….and I feel so guilty. You've no idea, Lucy….the guilt…I will always feel it. But I think…I think I'm beginning to make my peace with what happened. At least a bit.'

'What do you mean?'

She closes her eyes briefly. She hasn't talked to anyone for such a long time about that terrible day….'You see….I will always feel guilty about not telling George who I really was. Perhaps then he wouldn't have wanted a relationship with me….But I realise now that there was nothing Harry or I could have said, or done that day…even if Harry had told him about the uranium, Mani would have had George killed. Nico too….he couldn't afford to let them live. They'd seen the faces of his men….So….' She need not say more really.

Lucy places her hand on top of hers, very gently. 'Ruth….I think there's something you should know. Well. Several things, in fact.'

And it's her turn to talk, for a while, without interruption. The one thing she doesn't disclose is the true strength of Harry's love for Ruth. For that really should come from him. When she stops, Ruth looks at her, her face that of a frightened doe. 'Talk to him, him, and…talk to him.' She pauses, and then says, painfully, 'I lost ten years of my life to an abusive husband. It got me my children and for that I will always be grateful. But….don't underestimate how lucky you are, in the middle of all your pain.' She gets up, and brushes her lips against Ruth's forehead. 'I've got to go back to the children. Think about what I said, OK?'

As she goes, gently shutting the door behind her, Ruth lies back on her bed, exhausted. After a while, she picks up her mobile phone, and dials a number. 'Katharine? It's Ruth….no, no. I'm OK. It's just….I need a big favour from you. Really big. Could you…would you mind…' She gulps. 'Would you mind giving me the address of your family home in Yorkshire?'


	17. Chapter 17

5

Ch 17

**1. **

'Are you sure you really want to do this?'

Ruth turns to face the younger woman. 'Yes. I;ve never been more sure of anything in my life.'

'It's just….Dad has been through a lot and….'

She places her hand on Katharine's arm, and squeezes it, gently. 'Listen. I won't hurt him. I promise. I know what I want. It's up to him. OK?'

Katharine nods, keeping her eyes on the road ahead. She chuckles softly. 'To think that you were thinking of coming up by train…I mean, honestly. Barely a week after checking out of the hospital.'

'Thanks for driving me up', Ruth replies, a catch in her voice. 'I…are you sure you will be OK giving us a couple of hours…to sort things out? I don't want to impose and…'

'Don't worry. I'll go for a long walk. Just text me when you're ready to go. Or not', she adds cheekily.

'Katharine!', Ruth blushes.

'Oh come on…do you think I didn't notice that you have a big overnight bag? Ah., here is the turn, should be about five mns now. Are you nervous?'

'Terrified', Ruth says simply. She looks through the car window, unable to admire the wonderful landscape unfolding in front of her eyes, tensing up, increasingly, as the car slows down past lovely cottages, only to stop in front of a beautiful farmhouse. 'This is gorgeous', she says simply.

'Yes. It is. Of course, as a child, I used to find it terribly boring to come here. But Dad always insisted we all had to come and visit our gran…She switches off the ignition. 'I'll wait until you're in. In case he isn't home. Come on. Out you go.'

Ruth climbs out of the car, with difficulty. As she walks around to grab her bag, Katharine can't help noticing the way she limps, the cautious, painful way she calibrates her steps. She knows better though than to go and help her. Since Ruth phoned her to get the farmhouse address, and begged her not to tell anything to Harry, she has spent more time with her, and come to admire her fierce independence and determination. She kept her promise, but now she wonders whether it really was such a good idea to bring Ruth over here, unannounced.

She watches her walk up the driveway and ring the bell. The door opens. She can see her father, but not the expression on his face. Ruth walks in.

She drives off, leaving her to face one of the most important moments of her life.

**2. **

The insistent sound of the doorbell finally gets through to him. He was so absorbed in his thoughts, and in the mechanical task of lighting a fire to warm himself up, at the end of this surprisingly cold Spring afternoon, that he had not heard it.

He gets up heavily, the fire beginning to roar nicely. He's been here for a week, and although he loves this house, which he had bought for his mother as soon as he was able to, he can't find the peace and calm he so desperately needs. He knows why of course. He knows too that only time will heal him, and even then only partly so. He knows too that although he is still intent on resigning, he is scared of what the future holds for him. He has no doubt that as soon as the word of his resignation gets out he will have the pick of lucrative consultancy jobs in the security industry. Somehow though the thought doesn't appeal to him. He is too much of a public servant at heart to relish the prospect of working for the private sector. At the same time early retirement is not really an option: day time TV only has so much appeal….

He wonders who might be ringing the bell, at this time of the day. He rises heavily, feeling the fatigue buried in every bone in his body, not really wanting company, not really knowing whether he can endure yet another long, lonely evening with his thoughts and sadness for company.

He opens the door.

His heart skips a beat.

**3.**

'What….was that…is that Katharine's car?' he asks inanely.

'Yes. She drove me up.'

'She…', he swallows, heart hammering in his chest. 'I see.' He plainly doesn't. 'What…why are you..where is she off to?', he asks, mouth dry.

'She's going for a walk.'

'Going for a…I see', he repeats, feeling like an idiot, hand gripping the doorframe so tightly that his knuckles are white.

'Harry…can I come in? My leg really hurts. And it's been a long drive.'

'Yes. Yes, of course. Sorry. I wasn't thinking…Come on in.'

He rids her of her bag and leads her into the living room, where the fire spreads its welcoming warmth, not daring speculate as to why she might be here. 'Please…make yourself comfortable. Does your leg hurt a lot? Would you like something to drink?' he asks, aware of how ridiculously polite he sounds.

'Yes, Harry, my leg hurts a lot, thanks for asking and no, I don't want anything to drink. Thank you.' She knows she sounds cross. She _is _crossed. At him, for sitting so far away from, fidgety, for not even asking her what she is doing here, but putting up his barriers once again. She is tempted to leave, right now, to find refuge in the nearest pub and text Katharine to drive her back. But she has come up a long way, and might as well say her piece.

He preempts her. 'Ruth', he says hesitantly. 'Why are you here? It's not that it's not nice to…'

''Why didn't you tell me that you were bluffing about Nico?', she blurts out. 'Or that you sent John and Lucas to Paris to try and stop those terrorists?'

He stiffens and looks at her for a long time. _Lucy…what else have you told her? _'I didn't tell you about Nico because you were so angry with me then that you wouldn't have believed a word I'd have said. And I didn't tell you about John and Lucas because…' _Because the last thing I wanted to do was even utter the word Paris with you. _'If it had come out, everyone in the know would have lost their job. No one else knew in Section D', he says instead, flatly. 'Is _that _why you've come? To ask me that?' he asks, incredulously.

She sags a bit on the sofa. 'I would have believed you about Nico', she whispers. 'And I wish you had told me. It….it means a lot to me that…'

'That I wouldn't have let him die? Well. If it hadn't been for Malcome he would have. If Mani had brought him to the warehouse, he;d have killed him anyway, even if I had told him about the uranium.'

'Just like he killed George', she says brokenly.

'Yes. Just like he killed George', he replies, more abruptly that he intended. 'Look. Ruth. I'm sorry it happened. More than I can say. I know there's nothing I can do, nothing I can offer by way of redemption. But….'

'There's something else I need to know', she interrupts. 'When I was in a coma….Lucy told me you never left. Katharine said the same. That you wouldn't leave my bedside except for a shower or something to eat.'

He gets up and walks to the window, his back on her. 'I was…concerned. Very concerned. For a while no one knew whether you would make it. So…'

'Harry. Please.'

'Don't', he says between clenched teeth. 'Don't put me through this. Don't subject us to…'

'You love me, don't you?', she asks softly. He doesn't hear the softness, only the words and the feeling of vulnerability which they create in him.

'What do you want from me?', he asks harshly. 'A confession of undying love? Well, you can have it. Yes. I love you. I always have. Probably since your very first day on the team. Except that I can't know for sure because it happened so slowly, so gradually, that I didn't notice at first. I never got over you. Ever. In all those years, and the years you were…gone, there's been no one else. In any way. Is that what you wanted to hear? But you knew already, didn't you….God knows I didn't exactly hide my feelings after you came back. So why are you here?' He is breathing quickly, raggedly, pain and humiliation coursing through him. He notices her stricken face, the sheen of tears in her eyes. 'I'm sorry', he says more softly. 'I didn't mean to hurt you. But that's the thing….I never mean to hurt you and yet I always do.'

She gets up from the sofa, with difficulty, and through the pain which sears through her leg and hip, walks up to him. Although he has lost weight, she still feels slender and small compared to his bulk. 'I love you too', she says shakily. 'I always have done. I couldn't forget…'

He doesn't touch her, or get hold of her, or kiss her. He remains standing where he is, pain still etched in his eyes. 'I find that hard to believe.'

She takes a step back. 'What?! Harry! I've just told you…'

'The day I left. I saw you, at the hospital. You were looking at a photo of him. You were crying. So maybe you think that in the light of all that's happened, with Nigthingale…maybe you think you love me, but deep down, Ruth, deep down….'

She stares at him. 'I was saying goodbye', she whispers, chin trembling, desperately holding on to her self-control. 'I was saying goodbye to him. To what I had with him. I was finally beginning to make my peace with…with not loving him as he deserved to be. I was…' She can't go on. She fears that her leg will give out, that she will collapse in front of him, and she can't bear the thought of humiliating herself in that way, not when he's still looking so tense, so forbidding. She retreats to the sofa, slowly, but instead of sitting down, grabs her bag and makes for the door. 'This was a bad idea', she says brokenly. 'You know….I was really hoping that for once, we'd be able to talk. _Really_ talk. That we'd be able to find a way to each other. I guess I was wrong. I'd better go.'

She's halfway through room, towards the hall, when he reaches her. 'Wait. Ruth. Wait!'

She turns round, slowly.


	18. Chapter 18

4

**Ch18**

'Wait.'

He gets hold of her arms, almost supporting her weight. 'Don't go', he pleads. 'You're right. We need to talk. Properly. Please, Ruth.'

She nods, allowing him to guide her gently to the sofa. He sits next to her, close enough not to have to break contact. She looks at him, straight in the eyes, waiting for him to speak. He erases the trace of tears on her cheeks with shaky fingers. He doesn't know where to begin. There's so much he wants to say…so he begins in the simplest way possible. 'I love you', he whispers, not yet quite daring to believe that happiness might be within his grasp. 'And I knew you loved me, back then. Before you left. But when you came back…I could tell you'd been happy in Cyprus. I could tell _George_ had made you happy. And the way he died….and what we all had to contend with afterwards…Nightingale, Jo…it seemed that all you could have here, in this country, working with me, was unhappiness and pain. Also….he was so handsome. And then John started working on the team. He too is very good looking. And you got on so well.' He looks away. 'I couldn't believe you might want me.'

'Oh, Harry…', she shakes her head and raises her hands to his face. 'I've always loved you. Always. George…we had affection. Companionship. Intimacy.' He flinches at that, but wills himself not to move away from her and to listen to her, til the very end. 'But I didn't love him. There was always a part of me which was locked away. The best part. The truer part. That part always belonged to you.'

He shakes his head. 'But why? I'm so…limited. You know that. You know that I'm so much better at denial than at letting go…So what can I possibly give you that younger, better looking men than me couldn't?'

She stares at him, dumbfounded. 'In case you hadn't noticed, those men aren't exactly beating a path down to my doorstep', she says wryly. 'I'm too…bookish, too serious, not beautiful really and…'

'That's not true!', he says hotly. 'That's not true at all!' She looks at him, doubtfully. And so, on an impulse, he does what he has been wanting to do for months. He craddles her head in his hands and kisses her. Deeply, thoroughly, like a man who has finally found the spring he has been looking for despairing never to find it. He explores her mouth, lingeringly, alive to every nuance of her breath, relishing her scent, drinking in the sight and sound of her. After an eternity, he pulls away slightly and rests his forehead against hers. 'You're beautiful. And I want you so much…you've got no idea, do you, how much I want you?', he whispers, desire coursing through his veins.

'No', she replies, shaken to the core by the intensity of their kiss. 'But neither do you…'

He smiles wryly. 'No. I don't…tell me, Ruth. Tell me why you love me.' He pauses. 'I need to hear it. Please', he says softly, for once not fearing vulnerability, and fully placing his trust in her.

She strokes his face. 'I love your strength. Your compassion. Your intelligence…and the ruthlessness too. I find it painful sometimes. But it's part of you. I love your commitment to our country. I love…' She stops. How else can she explain? 'I love you', she says simply. 'It's not even…being in love. It's love, period. And I don't care that you're fifteen years older than me. I really don't. All I care about is being with you. And I've waited so long for that….so long, Harry.'

He grabs her hand in his. 'In Paris', he says painfully. 'After….afterwards. I was about to tell you how much I love you. But you were very upset. You cried. So I thought…'

She turns away from him slightly, embarrassed by the memories his question evokes in her. 'It'd never been like this for me. Ever. And I felt so scared you found me too…oh I don't know….but in the space of five minutes we got from having a huge row to….and before that, things had been so tense anyway. I didn't even know whether you wanted me.'

'You thought I was repelled', he says, understanding finally dawning on him. 'Oh Ruth…how could you think that…'

'You got up',she says tightly, pain in her eyes, a hint of bitterness in her voice. 'You got off the sofa, and said this should never have happened. And you locked yourself in the bathroom. Leaving me there…'

'I'm sorry. I am so, so sorry…but you were crying. And I thought that _you _ were repelled. I didn't exactly take my time with you, did I…. I thought that all you wanted was to be left alone. So I left you there. And it was so hard to do that…Ruth. That night…that night was a revelation. You've no idea how much of a shock it was to me, to see that I had it in me to fulfill you in that way. Afterwards…..' He looks at her, intently, willing her with his eyes to believe him. 'All I could think about, in between meetings and plotting how to defeat Nightingale…all I could think about was you. Having you. Making love to you. Not in anger. Not…not half undressed on a hotel room sofa…but at home. Properly. In a bed. Or on a rug, by the fire. Here, in this house. Taking time. Giving you time….I thought of it so much Ruth…it drove me crazy. It still does.'

Slowly, she starts smiling, at long last. 'It's the same for me', she whispers, slightly embarrassed. 'I would sit as far as possible from you, during meetings. I wanted you so much, I was worried it would show and…' She shrugs. 'You know…'

He smiles at her, and she realises, with a jolt, that in all those years of knowing him, she has very seldom seen him smile, that it is so easy to forget how much his smile transforms his face, and lights it up from the inside. 'Really?', he says almost shyly, incredulously, 'all those times when I thought you couldn't bear to be close to me…you were thinking of me that way?'

She can only nod, embarrassed suddenly at what she has just revealed. 'If only I had known', he whispers, teasingly, 'if only I had known…'

'What would you have done?', she asks brazenly.

His eyes grow darker. 'You know what', he says in a very low voice. 'What I hope I can do….later. When you're ready.' She holds his gaze, with the promise of what is to come vivid in her own, blue eyes. The silence grows tense and heavy, the sound of their shallow breathing filling the air. She raises her mouth to his and captures his lips between hers, gently at first, then insistently, exploring him as he explored her earlier. His hands start roving on her back, her neck through the opening of her blouse, and hers on his back too, sensing his desire. He pulls apart with a moan. '_Not_ the sofa. Not even the rug. Not for our first proper time together…' He gets himself under control. 'Christ, Ruth….the effect you have on me.'

'And you on me;, she replies shakily, flushed, eyes shiny, gorge rising and falling rapidly. He draws her in his arms, needing tenderness and the feel of her against him. She lies there for a while. Then, 'Harry, I hate to say this but…Katharine will be wondering…'

He chuckles. 'You're right. What did you two arrange?'

'That I would ask her to pick me up after two hours or….'

'Stay', he urges her. 'Stay here. For a while at least. We need this time alone together, don't we….without interruption, without anyone to…but have you got…'

She blushes. 'Well.I've got some clothes in my bag…'

'Ms Evershed!', he laughs, and how she loves the sound of his laughter. 'Did you come here with the intention of seducing me?'

She too laughs, relieved, happy beyond belief. 'The thought crossed my mind.' She grows serious. 'Harry. There's something you should know.' She hesitates and looks away. 'My leg. They had to operate and there's a big scar.' She swallows. 'It's rather ugly.'

He forces her gently to look at him. 'There's something _you _should know'. There's so much love in his eyes, so much vulnerability too, that she catches her breath. 'Apart from that…moment in Paris…I haven't done this for over six years.' Her eyes widen, unvoluntarily. 'Yes', he says wryly. 'Well, in between sorting out a few national emergencies and being unable to look at another woman because of you, there haven't been that many opportunities. And I _am _fifteen years older than you. So…I don't know whether…' He takes a deep breath, and lays it all out in the open, for her to see and contemplate, for her to decide what to do with it. 'I honestly don't know whether I can really fulfill you. Properly. At length.'

She strokes his cheek. 'I understand. And I'm not in the least worried'.

'Well. That's….that's good. Because I'm bloody terrified, to tell you the truth.'

She kisses him softly. 'Trust me', she whispers, 'trust us. Now…let me call Katharine. And then…'

'And then I am taking you out for diner. There's a lovely pub down the road. And _then_…' he lets it hang in the air.

'And then?'

'I'm all yours. All yours, Ruth, if you want me to be, that is.'

She smiles at him, a wide, large, beaming smile. She does not need to answer.


	19. Chapter 19

3

**Ch 19**

**Well, you said you wanted smut….so smutty it is! Don't read if it is n****ot your thing…**

**HRFan**

On the way back from the pub, after a lovely, warm, intimate diner over which they talked about everything but work, they do not speak, Harry both dreading and relishing the prospects of what he knows will soon happen, Ruth sensing his fear, putting her hand on his thigh as he drives them back carefully to the house. He helps her out, his arm around her shoulders to support her, to give himself reassurance too. He opens the door to his house, still holding on to her, and switches on one of the dim lights in the entrance hall and the staircase. He closes the door, and turns to look at her. She looks at him back, love pouring out of her eyes, her lips already parted in anticipation of his kiss. He draws her to him, body length to body length, and rest his forehead against hers. 'We don't have to do anything tonight', he says, 'you know that, don't you…if you're tired, if you'd rather wait…'

She places a hand on his nape, the other one on his cheek, and silences him with a deep, long, lingering kiss. She can feel his desire for her, and knows that however scared he was earlier, he is ready at last to take this final step in their long journey towards intimacy and companionship. 'Take me to bed, Harry', she says simply.

He leads her upstairs, always mindful of her leg, and into his bedroom. She doesn't register what the room looks like: all she can see is the bed, the beautiful quilt, the crisp white sheets. All she can feel is the force of his presence looming over her as he lays her down on the mattress. 'I love you', he whispers. 'Never forget that.'

'I love you too. Never forget that either', she echoes.

He kisses one of her eyelids, then the next, his lips the flutter of a butterfly' s wing, before fastening on her mouth. Her desire gathers strength, heavy, insistent, demanding. She starts unfastening his shirt, as he does the same with her blouse, with shaky hands, until she is fully exposed to his gaze. He draws back a little, the better to look at her, and his face becomes taut, almost harsh with longing. 'You're beautiful', he chokes. 'You're so beautiful…and I've wanted to do this for so long….so long….' Slowly, he traces his own exploratory route down her neck, around her breasts, with his hands first, then with his lips, fastening on her, but not where she wants him most, not yet, not until she pleads with him. 'Harry, please…here…'

He raises his head and smiles at her, a tentative, almost shy smile, and complies. He captures one nipple in his mouth, and the next, and licks, and sucks, gently at first, feathery touches which pulls her closer to the edge, then harder, his fingers and mouth alternating….she is swimming in a sea of sensation, there's nothing that matters more, in this moment, than the feel of this man's mouth on her, and she can feel herself rising, climbing, higher, even higher, and she can hear herself moan, until she crashes down, calling out his name, her body shaking with a pleasure she cannot control.

He holds her the whole time, stays with her, revels in her pleasure, astonished to have brought her to such an intense climax through the sole pressure of his hands and lips on her breasts She looks at him, a hint of embarrassment in her eyes. 'Sorry', she breathes raggedly, 'but I couldn't…' He shakes his head. 'You're amazing', he whispers in awe. He rids her of all of her clothes, impatient to see her fully naked, to smell her, to touch her everywhere. He feels her hands on him as she undresses him too and pushes him gently on his back.

He clenches his fists. Now there's nothing left to hide from her, as he lies there, fully exposed and open to the gaze of a woman for the first time in years. He studies her face intently for signs of disappointment and all he can see is love and the newly gathering strength of desire. She strokes and kisses his chest, his stomach, and moves further below, and he is eager and ready for her touch, but she surprises him by abandoning him only to start again, from his feet, up his legs, inside his thighs…he closes his eyes, straining towards her, years of denial pushing him every closer to the edge.

She is about to reach her goal, when he grabs her hands. 'Ruth. Stop. Stop.' She looks at him, apprehensively. He tries, and fails, to get his breath under control. 'If you do this', he says hoarsely, 'I won't be able to hold back…And I want…for this first time…I want…'

She raises herself up to him. 'I understand', she replies softly.

He gently gets her to lie her next to him, on her back, and resumes his exploration of her. His lips trace the red scar on the side of her left hip, so tenderly that she can feel the prick of tears in her eyes. They travel inside her thighs, until he is so close to her core that he can smell and feel her earlier pleasure. Gently, ever so gently, he opens her up, with his fingers, then his mouth, feeling closer to her that he has felt to anyone. With a harsh cry, she gets hold of his head and keep him still. He looks up at her. 'Now', she demands. '_Now_.'

He crawls back over her, his entire body sliding against hers, nesting himself between her legs. At the very last moment, he pauses. 'I love you', he repeats shakily, 'I love you.' She pulls him inside her, biting her lips as she can feel his whole length lining up within her, deeper and more insistently than she has ever felt a man. Instinctively they slow down, the better to savour and enjoy and touch and kiss, and to gather strength for their joint ascent. He supports his weight on his forearms, and locks his eyes to hers. 'I love you', she whispers back, shaken by what they are sharing, not really knowing anymore where his body ends and hers begins.

He starts moving slowly, wanting her to feel every inch of him, wanting to know every inch of her, back and forth, looking at her all the time, his face taut under the strain of taming his body's response to her moist warmth, unable to control his moaning. She accompanies him, stroke for stroke, touch for touch, and it is she who starts speeding up, grabbing his hips, urging him on, relishing the sound of his voice, of her echoes of pleasure, until she becomes oblivious of anything and anyone other than the waves of pleasure which send her arching her back in a long, drawn out scream, and the jetlike force of his fulfillment within her.

He collapses on top of her, limbs heavy with spent desire, heart beating wildly in his chest. After a few seconds, he shifts on his side, drawing her to him, still ensconced in her, encased in her still pulsating flesh. She's closed her eyes, as if to shield herself from his gaze. He doesn't mind. He understands. He gathers her even closer. She clings to him, blindly, and nests against him, her breathing slowly getting back to normal. At long last she opens her eyes.

They're glistening tears. So are his.


	20. Chapter 20

4

**Ch 20 **

They are lying on the thickest rug and cushions he could find, in front of a fire whose ambers cast a glowing light on her skin. She is asleep in his arms. He listens to the sound of her breathing, thinking of nothing and no one except this moment, this woman, the feel of her skin against his, the lingering tingles of their earlier lovemaking, what they have shared since she turned up on her doorstep two weeks before. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined that they could reach, together, and so quickly, such levels of passion, intimacy, and trust. Never had he ever thought that he could be so happy – and that he could make _her _so happy.

They go out a couple of times a day, to walk Scarlett, get some fresh air, and stock the fridge. Other than that, they stay in, cook, read, talk….but mostly stay in bed – devoured by their need for each other, and by years of frustration and pent up desire. With each night that goes by, they learn more about each other, about themselves too. They understand how to touch, how to kiss, how to make the other wait to the point of almost unbearable tension…to hold, to caress, to plead, to urge…_Fifty-five years old_, he thinks to himself, watching the fire, letting her sleep, _I had to wait so long for this but my God….my God it's been worth it._

He can feel himself getting sleepy, limbs heavy with good, healthy fatigue, but an old, familiar, dreaded sound rouses him. He goes still, alert. The sound does not abate. He gets up, puts on his dressing gown, and finds the phone in a kitchen drawer, where he had dumped it when he first got here, three weeks before.

He looks at it with distrust, willing it to stop ringing. It does not. Hesitantly, he takes the call. 'Andrew.'

'Harry. Hi. How…how are things?'

'Good, thank you.' He has no intention of being warm and welcoming. He does not want this intrusion into his life, into _their_ life. 'What can I do for you?', he asks politely.

'Well, you can cook us lunch tomorrow, for starters.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Ros needs a break. So do I. So I thought we could pay you – and Ruth – a visit.'

'I see. Tomorrow.'

'Yes. Is that a problem?' _Yes!_, he wants to say. _Yes, it is a problem, because I don't want anything, and anyone, to come here, to…_ 'It's no problem at all. We shall both be looking forward to seeing you', he hears himself say, before hanging up.

He walks over to the window, blind to the gorgeous sunset, lost in his thoughts. _Please let nothing destroy this_, he begs silently to whomever is not listening, _please not now, it's too soon, give us some more time…._

'Harry? Is everything alright?'

He turns round quickly. She is standing on the threshold of the kitchen. With her hair pulled back in a pony tail, and clothed in his large teeshirt, her eyes clear, her skin fresh through fresh air, good food, exercise, and intense sex, she looks absurdly young. His heart constricts in his chest. 'Yes, of course', he says. 'Why?'

'You look..troubled.'

He shakes his head. 'It's….it's fine. Nothing really. Andrew Lawrence just rang. He and Ros are coming over tomorrow for lunch.'

She stares at him. 'I see', she says in a calm, measured voice. 'Did you actually invite them?'

'Not exactly, no.'

'I see. Did he say why he wanted to…'

'No. It's just a friendly visit, Ruth. They need a break, they're almost…friends of…' His voice trails off. And for the first time since they finally found their way to each other, she feels irritation towards him. 'I see. The Home Secretary and the acting Head of MI5's anti-terrorism section are on their way to see you, of all people, while you're on holidays, and it's just a friendly visit. When they haven't phoned once since I've been here.'

'I don't know, Ruth. I don't know what he wants, alright?' She stiffens, and he realised that he's raised his voice. 'I'm sorry', he says quickly. 'It's …look, we'll find out tomorrow. Are you hungry now? Shall we go out for diner? We haven't been to the village the last couple of days…'

She looks at him for a long time. He avoids her eyes, unwilling to see the sadness in them. 'Yes', she finally says with a sigh, 'let's go out. Give me half an hour to get ready.'

Whilst she takes a shower, he gets dressed, tidies up the living room, secures the fireplace, lets Scarlet out for a run, clinging to those small gestures of normality, knowing, deep down, that the honeymoon, as it were, is over.

**2. **

Over diner, they don't say much, stunned by how quickly, and easily, the barriers went up again between them, afraid of opening the chasm, scared suddenly of what the future holds for them. Afterwards, they drive back in complete silence. She goes in first, he follows, moved by the sight of her fragile, delicate nape. 'Ruth?' he calls out urgently. She turns around to face him, her eyes large pool of uncertainty in the dim light of the hallway. He draws her too him, desperate to feel her beneath his hands. He lowers his head to hers, and starts kissing her, slowly at first, more and more urgently, as his desire expands and gathers strength. She does not seem to mind his urgency and pulls at his clothes almost roughly, as he pulls at hers. Without needing to talk, they go straight to the living room, not breaking touch for a second. Blindly he throws a couple of logs on the dying embers of the fire, whilst she undresses quickly and pulls his trousers down. Within a few seconds, they are naked.

He grabs her hands in his and raises her arms high up above her head, drinking in the sight of her, exposed, open to him. He captures one of her breasts in his mouth, and licks, and sucks, and teases, then the other, and releases her hands to open her legs. He goes down on her, stroking her nipples into hardened buds whilst his mouth explores her intimate folds. He knows she is close, so close, but he stops, deliberately, impervious to her frustrated cries. He takes one of her hands again, and places it on his body, where he craves her touch. She starts stroking him, in long, shallow movements, revelling in his arousal, and bends her head to him. He lifts his hips off the rugs. 'Harder', he commands, 'Harder'. She shakes her head. 'No. Not yet.' He bites his lips, beads of sweat on his brow. In one smooth movement, she lies down on him and takes him in. He arches his back, trying to quicken her pace. 'Please', he begs, 'please…'. But she imprisons his hips between her knees, and there is nothing he can do but to follow her rhythm, slow, agonisingly shallow, taking him to the brink and pulling him away, again, and again.

She pauses a fraction, to catch her breath, and he takes the opportunity to roll her over onto her back. With a supreme effort of will, he withdraws from her, and pulls himself up on both arms, his erection teasing her. She cries out for him. He enters her, ever so slowly, only a fraction, and pulls out again, his breath coming out in a long, ragged moan. He comes back to her, deeper, and leaves her again, oblivious to her nails in his back, and takes himself deeper still, and out again, completely. And this time, it's her turn to plea. She takes his face between her hands. 'Please. Harry…I need to…please.' She can barely talk. He slams into her, almost roughly, to the hilt, and at last quickens the pace, every muscle, every sinew in his body taut with the strain of holding on to the last ounces of self-control he has. She clenches around him in long, deep convulsions, her scream resonating in his ears, echoed by his own shout as his hips finally buckle.

They can barely move. She slowly pulls a blanket over them, her entire body still shaking. He moves onto his side, holding on to her. After a long time, he pulls away slightly and looks at her. 'Are you OK?', he whispers. 'Do you want to go to bed?'

She acquiesces silently. He deals with the fire, his back to her, still bathed in sweat. She wants to run her hand on that back, in love and tenderness, but holds back. They go up together, not bothering to take their clothes with them, holding hands. They collapse between the sheets, and fall asleep quickly after one last, raw kiss.

He wakes up a few hours later. Her side of the bed is empty.


	21. Chapter 21

4

**Ch 21**

**1.**

**3am**

She is wincing with pain, desperately trying to loosen her leg. The vice like grip of the cramp woke her up, and she made her way downstairs to the living room, gingerly, not wanting to disturb Harry. The pain is so intense that she whimpers under a breath.

She has left her massaging cream into the bathroom, but the thought of having to go back upstairs pins her firmly on the couch. She knows that the pain is not merely physical, that it is a symptom of the dull, pounding ache in her heart. Andrew Lawrence and Ros Myers are coming for lunch, and not only does she not want to cook: she doesn't want them here, disrupting the sheltered life which she and Harry have had those past two weeks. _All it took was a phone call_, she tells herself bleakly, _just one phone call from work, and he's already put his walls up again…Not completely, _another inner voice tells her_, at least you now make love and my God, what lovemaking…Yes, _she replies, all the while inefficiently massaging her leg, _but sex is not a proxy for talking…_and on and on it goes, round her head, with no let up.

'You're in pain.'

She looks up, startled. Harry is standing on the threshold of the living room, in the old crumpled dressing gown which she loves. The expression on his face is familiar to her though she can't quite pinpoint when she has already seen it: intense, almost drinking her with his eyes, but with sadness too. And then she remembers - that long ago night, at Heavensworth, in the hotel corridor, whilst the Italian trade minister was partying….

She looks away. 'It's my leg. The bad one…it's cramping up badly.'

He nods. 'I'll be right back.' He disappears upstairs – a few moments during which she decides that she will not be the one to chip at the walls tonight. These are his walls, and she cannot always be the one to make the first move and expose herself. _And if he says nothing_, she tells herself firmly, _well, you carry on, and accept that this is the man he is. Limited in so many ways, struggling to share and open up. __**This **__is the man you love…_

He comes back and sits next to her, her jar of massaging cream in his hands. Wordlessly, he gets her to lie on her back, and starts rubbing it on her leg, her hip, her calf, her foot, his fingers kneading her painful, taught muscles. There is nothing sexual about his touch; yet it's not the impersonal touch of a professional masseur. It is a loving, tender touch – the touch of someone who is trying to say something with his hands to the person he loves, something he finds almost impossible to actually put in words.

**2. **

When he felt the emptiness by his side, he panicked. Without thinking he put on his gown and went downstairs, gripped by irrational fear that she had left him altogether. He saw the lamp in the living room, and his breathing calmed. He also saw the pained, wistful expression on her face. He was almost tempted to tip toe back upstairs, unable, it seemed., to confront her after their difficult evening and extraordinarily intense lovemaking. _I can't face talking to her_, he thought, _not now, not….I'm tired, and it won't solve anything anyway_…He had already turned away back to the stairs, confident she hadn't heard him, when a memory of days long gone flashed through his mind: Jane sitting alone in their small, cramped living room, after yet another evening when he had not made it home on time for the children's bedtime; him knowing that she wanted to talk to him about their marriage, but unable to muster the energy and courage for it….and their marriage crumbling, slowly, under the growing weight of their silence…_That's what is in store for Ruth and me, _he thought, scared. _That's the mistake I am already beginning to make with her, tonight._

And so he turned back, and saw that her pain was also very physical, very real. And now he is sitting next to her, offering her relief through the soothing movement of his hands and fingers, not in desire, but in pure love. She is not saying anything, just looking at him. He can feel her eyes on his face. He dares not look at her.

'I've…I've never been good at expressing my feelings', he hears himself says, looking at his hands at work on her body. 'That's….that's always been very difficult for me.'

She says nothing, clearly placing the ball in his court. 'Do you remember when I told you about Jo?' She does of course: he can feel the sudden tension in her leg. 'You left my office', he carries on, doggedly, 'I knew you were right outside. Crying. And I sat at my desk…yet all I wanted to do…' He clears his throat. 'All I wanted to do was to cry with you….to hold you in my arms….'

'Why did you not?', she asks softly. 'I so wanted you to, you know.'

His hands go very still. 'Because if I had, in that moment…the feelings of grief would have been unbearable. Like a dam which bursts.'

'Dams sometimes need to burst, Harry.'

'I know…intellectually, I know that. But…I told you about my father. The hell he turned our lives into. All the time, growing up…I knew that if I showed the slightest sign of fear, of vulnerability…I was done for. And in our job…well, you know what that's like.'

She places her hand on his, lightly. 'It's OK, Harry. I do understand. I understand it takes time, and trust, and….I don't find it easy myself, you know…'

He strokes her fingers, and finally looks at her., and asks her the question which has been plaguing him for over three years. 'When you left…on that dock. Why didn't you let me tell you that I love you?'

She smiles wryly. 'Because if you had, the feelings of grief would have been unbearable….I needed to survive. And in order to survive I couldn't afford to hear those words.'

He helps her sit up and holds her close against him. 'Andrew coming over tomorrow…I don't like it, Ruth. I don't like it one bit.'

'Harry…What are you so scared of?'

He takes his time before answering. 'I'm terrified that he'll rope me back in. That I won't be able to resist…because let's face it, I'm no good for anything else. But this job, the service….it's about death. Grief. Impossible choices. Moral burdens. Intolerable pressure…'

'You've coped with it for thirty years', she points out, 'so what's changed?' She waits for his answer, heart hammering in her chest. _Please say it, _she begs him silently, _please…._

'You', he says simply. 'Now I have you when I thought I had lost you forever. And I can't bear the thought that I might lose you again. Either to a bomb…or to my inability to function as a normal man as soon as I swipe my card into the Grid.' His throat feels painfully tight. 'I can't bear it, Ruth. I'd rather stop working altogether.'

She strokes his cheek. 'You can't do that, Harry. This resignation thing….you're not ready to leave the Service, deep down. You know that, don't you? Besides…you forget that I'm due to leave too. And soon….so with only one of us working there…what? What's wrong?'

'Well', he looks away, sheepishly, 'I never passed on your letter to HR. I thought you might change your mind once I'd gone.'

'Harry!'

'I know. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. But….it all happened after Paris and we were both so….'

'Overwrought. Yes. Fair enough….'

'Do you want to carry on working there?', he asks tentatively.

She yawns. 'Yes. But not with you as your boss. Which creates all sorts of problems. Harry….it's 3:30 in the morning…can we have that conversation tomorrow? I mean, later today?'

He chuckles. 'Yes, we can. Come on, Mule…let's go to bed.'

He helps her up, pleased that she is leaning on him heavily. They get into bed, and snuggle close, naked skin against naked skin. As their breathing slows down, welcoming sleep, she runs her hand slowly over him – not to arouse him but because she needs to touch him somehow, as simple as that. 'I love you', she whispers. 'And we'll find a way through this. Somehow.'

As she finally falls asleep, he allows himself to believe, for once, that things will turn out fine after all.


	22. Epilogue

**Epilogue **

**A month later**

**1.**

'So', Harry says, looking around the table. 'We know that three members of that terror cell have disappeared in the last two weeks. We know that one member of the cell has been in touch with a known Chechyen arms-dealers. We know that there have been odd bank transfers from a cell member's bank account to a bank in Jersey. We have photos of possibly extremist training camps in Afghanistant. All we need to know now is…'

'Is how to connect those dots', Ros cuts in. 'Lucas, have you managed to get hold of…?'

'Nope. Still waiting for Section E to come up with the goods', Lucas risks, with a cautious glance at Harry.

Harry smiles. 'Well, as it happens…come in!', he says as there's a knock on the door.

The door opens, and Ruth bursts in, her arms precariously filled with folders. 'Sorry, everyone, I'm late, some last minute hassle with…'

Tariq jumps to his feet to relieve her of her files. 'Hi, Ruth', he says cheerfully.

'Hi…Hi Lucas. Ros.', she beams at them. 'So. What have you got?'

'Well', Harry points out, 'we were hoping that as head of our newly establish section E, in charge of all intel analysis for the Service, you would be able to tell us.'

'Oh, so you're no longer willing to think for yourselves now are you?', she teases them. 'Right. This is what we think. Oh, and Harry, Graham has got some new stuff for you about those bank transfers. He'll be along later.'

'The Serious Fraud Squad cooperating with MI5 right from the off…now that'd be a start', Harry mock-grumbles. 'Right, everyone. Down to business. So….'

As they start analysing the data, working out possible scenarios, Harry looks at Ruth, his heart filled with love and pride. _If anyone had told me, a few weeks ago, that we would both be back here, with Ruth heading this new section…that I could be so happy…I wouldn't have believed it. _ He remembers the young woman who burst into a similar meeting, all those years ago – the first time he met her – shy, diffident, needing to prove herself…so different from the woman now sitting across him, and yet so similar…_What a journey we've had together_, he muses…for once, he finds it hard to concentrate on the job at hand. All he wants, right now, at this moment, he realises with a start, is to take her to the rooftop , the scene of so many of their encounters, and kiss her senseless. With an effort, he drags himself back to the meeting.

An hour later, tasks distributed and ticked off, he brings the meeting to a close, his eyes holding Ruth's a fraction longer than necessary. She smiles at him, lightly, and leaves the meeting room.

'Ros? A word, please', he beckons his section chief to his office.

'How are things?', he inquires solicitously.

'Fine, thanks, why?'

'Well. The last few months have been….rocky. And you and I have barely had a chance to catch up since I came back to work. I just wanted to make sure that everthing is alright with you.'

She smiles briefly. 'It's fine, Harry. Honestly.' She pauses, then, not quite looking at him, 'It's really good to have you back.'

'Well. Your….the Home Secretary was very persuasive.'

'He's a politician. What do you expect?'

He can't miss the hint of bitterness in her voice. 'Care to elaborate?', he asks cautiously.

She shrugs. 'Nothing. It's nothing really…'

'Ros….'

'Look. Just because you've found happiness with Ruth doesn't mean everything has got to be hunky dory for everyone else, OK? Sorry. Sorry. I didn't mean that….' She is getting upset, and resents the fact that it shows. She takes a few deep breaths. He doesn't say anything and waits, patiently.

'He wants us to have a child', she blurts out.

If she were not so tense, so fragile, he would laugh at the expression of utter disgust on her face. But he also recognises it for what it is – terror at the prospect of being responsible for another life, of losing her identity to motherhood but above all of failing at motherhood. So he gives her a few moments to get herself under control. 'I was a terrible father', he says gently. 'So I'm not in a position to preach. But….with Ruth, my children are the most important part of my life now. And look at Adam, and Fiona…they were good parents.'

'Until they got themselves killed', she retorts, 'leaving their son an orphan. Let's face it, Harry. I'm a field agent, and Andrew is a politician who wants the top job. And who could blame him... Neither of us are good parental prospects, are we?'

What can he say? There is too much truth there. He squeezes her shoulder affectionately, and lets her go back to her desk, knowing that there is no answer to her dilemma except the one she will somehow have to come up with herself, with her guts rather than her brain.

With a quick glance he makes sure that they are all at their desks, and makes his way to the rooftop.

**2. **

She knew what that look meant, earlier, in the meeting room: _meet me on the rooftop_…He got there before her, and is absorbed by the London skyline they both love so much, hands in his pockets. Her heart constricts with love. 'Hi', she says softly.

He turns round with a smile. Now that he smiles so much these days, she realises how little he did before, and how different his face is when he does. 'Hi'.

She walks over to the stone balustrade, and leans against him. He puts an arm around her, his lips brushing her hair. They stand together in silence, savouring each other's company, their closeness, the ever growing strength of the bond between them. 'What are you thinking?', he asks her.

'That I never thought I could be so happy…Even though…' She stops abruptly. _Don't go there, don't spoil this perfect moment by…_

He tenses up. 'Do you have any regrets?'

She remains silent for so long that he fears she will never answer. 'Only two', she says at last. 'One, that I never told George who I really was. If I had…I doubt he would have wanted us to be together, and he would still be alive.' His arm around her shoulders doesn't falter away, but is rigid with apprehension. She rubs her head against him. 'I can't _not _think it all away, Harry. I can't just pretend that my happiness isn't built on the back of his death.'

He wills himself not to move away. 'Do you think of him when we….?'

'When we make love? Never', she replies almost fiercely. 'When we make love, when you are inside me…or when we are together cooking diner, when we go for a long walk, when we work together…I only think of you. I never think of having had that with him. Because the truth is…I didn't have it with him, and never could. _You _were the one I was thinking of when I was with him. Not all the time but most of it….'She turns around to face him fully and gently holds his face between her hands. 'I love you. All I have wanted, for years, was to be with you. And if I sometimes seem sad or distant…just tell me.'

He strokes her cheek with his thumb. 'I will', he whispers. 'What was your other regret?'

'That I didn't let you tell me you loved me, all those years ago. If you had…I wouldn'thave been able to run away.'

'Run away? You didn't run away, you…'

'Of course I ran away. Do you honestly believe we couldn't possibly have proved my innocence, and neutered Mace? Sure, it would have taken time, and patience but…we could have done it. Deep down, I knew that. And so did you.'

'So why…?'

'Because I was terrified of being with you. It'd been so long since I'd been in any kind of a relationship…I thought I would disappoint you. I was scared of being seen as a woman of flesh and blood, as someone other than plain, bookish Ruth Evershed…'

'Oh Ruth..how could you ever think that?', he shakes his head.

'It's OK', she says calmly. 'I don't care about what people think anymore. Life's too short. Besides…', she chuckles softly, 'I'm very comfortable, these days, about being made of flesh and blood.'

'Well, judging by last night, you certainly are!', he teases her, loving the way she blushes at the memories his comments sparks in her.

He leans forward and captures her mouth with his, his breathing already ragged, his body immediately reacting to her warmth and the insistent pressure of her lips. He drags himself away from her with effort. 'I was scared too', he admits, 'on that dock. I could have said those words anyway. But…I guess I was afraid of what it would mean. Of facing everyone. Of confronting all my past failures as a husband, a lover…'

She nests against him closely. 'Shall we go up to Yorkshire tonight?',. she suggests. 'It's Friday today and we haven't been back since we came back to work.'

He thinks of the pile of files waiting for him. Of the security alert upgraded this morning, at her suggestion, from green to orange. Of the 14 phone calls he has to return. Of the briefings he has to conduct. Of how much of a difference to next week going to work for the whole of Saturday and Sunday will make.

She is staring straight at him, knowing exactly what he is thinking. He is pondering it, back and forth, the old workaholic Harry battling it out with the new, more relaxed, more balanced Harry.

He takes a deep breath. 'Let's go'.

THE END.


End file.
